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pyro-madder · 2 months

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bb thoughts and headcanons : second batch, for djura's clique and then some. because i don't think any of them were powder kegs actually, or rather...

1) Unless this is translation shenanigans, we are only told Djura was "known through his contact with" the late Kegs, and if he was the last of them perhaps the game would have insisted on it just a bit more ?? Regardless, my take is that he was training under them, but Old Yharnam happened before he could earn the title in full. oopsie

2) Now for his 3 companions, in the order in which I think he met them :

Jozef : first of all, the reason I go for him for the alleged third companion is that I would much, much rather use an already existing NPC (especially an obscure one I can develop) than make up a new guy from scratch, and the charred set alone makes him our best lead, even with everything else I will discuss below.

So - he's a variant of hostile "Izzy's Admirer" hunters, all wearing the charred set and wielding the beastclaw... BUUUT considering it's on another beastclaw user that you loot the badge for Oto's workshop - the Kegs' predecessors - I suppose Oto and Izzy were collaborating to an extent ? With Archibald as well, considering both he and Izzy worked on DarkBeast material... unless, on the opposite, that made them rivals... but I'm straying here --

Headcanoning that Oto lived to see his workshop become the Kegs and that the latter respected him greatly - Djura included - it makes it possible to be a follower of both Izzy and the Kegs. However Jozef may wear the charred set, but he doesn't use any firearms, so he probably wasn't a Keg at all. However² nothing specified Djura's companions had to be Kegs, and were rather more likely followers of his philosophy. So my Jozef ends up a bit of a swiss army knife - an early Church recruit to serve with Loran's tomb prospectors, a hunter partaking in Izzy's experiments with beasthood, a friend to Oto and the Kegs, not much older than Djura, present for Old Yharnam but ultimately Taken By The Dungeons.

Djura's disciple, henceforth Ysle (old english for "ash", or so i've read) : I fully believe him sharing facedata with Simon was devs laziness, and I don't blame them for it - Simon has half his face hidden the entire time you know him and Ysle is not only hooded, but also not exactly easy to look at up close in-game. I joked about them being twins, but then thought it could actually work and went with it. Ysle would've started off as a Harrowed alongside Simon, and the two would not hesitate to "switch" to trick others and gain further information on the job. At some point Ysle would take interest in the Kegs' craftsmanship, but would only join Djura after the burning, both for said craftsmanship and ideology : I like the theory that it was the Church that poisoned Old Y to begin with to popularize ministration, and who better suited than Simon to find that out... he'd relay the discovery to Ysle and both would turn against the Church, even apart.

I was convinced Simon was not already dead in the Nightmare due to his opening lines to the player ("must've taken a wrong turn somewhere then // we're more alike than you think", to me it implies he came in deliberately rather than upon death). However I had come to the conclusion that those who end up in the nightmare/dream upon death don't age (Maria), unlike those who were brought in (Gehrman), but the twins' facedata makes them look young compared to Dju and most of all Brador whom I believe them to be contemporary of (edit 17/04 : the Bowblades's desc also reminds us that Simon was one of the first Church hunters)... either way, they were Taken By The Horrors roughly around the same period, but unlike Simon, Ysle eventually lost himself in his duty to protect the beasts and cannot be engaged with anymore.

Djura's ally, henceforth Brandr (old norse for "fire", or so i've read) : last one met, last one standing. My headcanons for him were built on two sources : Oodle's Must we burn it all which I absolutely recommend if you aren't put off by his ship with Dju, and the unused "Old Yharnam survivor" NPC whose dialogue I would've loved to hear in-game. So, Brandr - not a Keg, perhaps not a hunter at all before the burning happened, merely a local who's probably two steps removed from beasthood at all times, was stumbled upon by Djura once the latter returned to the scene of the crime and they struck a deal. fellas is it gay to remain by the side of a self-exiled man you know (participated in what) took everything from you

3) Still raking my brain over how the Kegs were branded heretics. I'd wager the Church conveniently blacklisted them after using them to do their dirty work, but on what account ? Of course they could have just made up anything, but they actually have groundwork here. I don't think it was protecting the beasts as I believe this was specific to Djura and a few others, not something that applied to the Kegs as a whole. Could it have been their connection to Izzy, whose weapon, filed under Church weapons in the Hunter's Dream storage box, is sealed within remote tombs and whose hunter tool deemed "forbidden" ? It's not too far-fetched to assume they and their followers also experimented with beast blood pellets, which are banned by the Church as well.

Let's compare with another craftsman... strangely enough, Tonitrus is listed under the (Hunter's) workshop weapons in the Dream's storage box , despite Archibald being explicitely stated to be part of the Church's workshop... Likely stationned in Yahar'gul, a secret faction of the Church, considering that's where you loot the thing to begin with, alongside many bolt papers dropped by the snatchers, and that you find a copy wielded by a Yahar'gul hunter. Right next to Old Yharnam too, with Paarl's arena considered within the latter. Despite his focus on electricity rather than bestiality, it sounds like Archibald might still have been on thin ice considering his title of "eccentric" and the fact his badge was crafted in secret.

The Beast Roar is cast by human vocal cords. The unused NPC tells us that in Old Yharnam's folklore, beast is the true form of man. The bestial hunter of Oto's workshop bears the same rune that Laurence was branded with in his pursuit of controlling beasthood... but was ultimately forbidden as well.

Perhaps the Church simply desired monopoly over research on beasthood...

a tl;dr (believe me, i needed it too) :

Oto : craftsman & hunter whose workshop would become the Powder Kegs, a rolemodel to Djura

Izzy : craftsperson, hunter and friend to Oto and the Kegs, who understood and explored the inherent beastly nature of man

Jozef : tomb prospector hunter, follower of Izzy and friend to Oto and the Kegs, a bit of a tutor to Djura

Djura : Keg in-training & hunter, understood the real nature of beasts and further connected the dots post-burning through each of his companions

Brandr : actual Old Yharnam local, believes in the inherent beastly nature of man, agreed to cooperate with Djura to defend what little remained

Ysle : hunter, former Harrowed, would have been a Keg in-training if the burning hadn't happened first, only Djura remained to teach him their skills

#headcanons #and theorish. sort of. but which part is which is not specified so good luck #please mind the 'and then some' by the time i finished the last paragraph i forgot who i was.#then i did a tldr and things were good again. yeet

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sholven · 2 years

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Hi! I already asked this question to other people but I just want your opinion on this:

What would the reaction of some Bloodborne bosses (before they turn into monsters) when meeting the Good Hunter, who is a New Game+ that somehow managed (maybe accidentally) went back in time before the event of the game starts? My impression of the Good Hunter is that they're a contracted hunter when they came out of the clinic. Due to social anxiety from not talking to sane people in their last round of killing Flora, the people of Yharnam will end up get the impression of "He's just standing there, menacingly" vibe off of em'. And to top it all off, they're blood quality is so pungent then normal blood saint, its as if they themselves is a great one (if ya wanna go with the squid baby ending then be my guest).

Hope you get well soon <3

HI, I'M SO SORRY I'M JUST NOW GETTING TO THIS, THIS SICKNESS HAS BEEN KICKING MY ASS AND I'M JUST NOW STARTING TO GET COHERENT THOUGHTS 😭😭😭

Looking at some few bosses rq that transform when we see them, I'd have to agree with how you put it! Gascoigne especially would be bewildered as to why the Good Hunter is so reluctant and shocked. Almost as if they'd seen a ghost! We know Gascoigne though revels in the fight while he's still human, so I think he'd eventually have enough of just Staredown: The Game, and initiate the fight himself if he had to.

As for the next one on our list, Amelia, I feel like she'd be more sensitive to the presence of the Good Hunter's blood. If she has the chance to pull herself away from her prayer when approached, all of this plus the hunt and her impending transformation would probably make her even more afraid at that moment. Who is this hunter she's never seen before? Why is their blood something akin to Old Blood and maybe something stronger? And more importantly, why are they staring at her in such as way, almost as if they are as scared as she is at that moment? I think she might also take it as a sign from the Great Ones themselves. Unfortunately, I don't think she will have the time to ponder why...

As for some other bosses throughout the main game, most I think will not have that important of a reaction, but others like Ebrietas, Logarius, and Wet Nurse will definitely take some notice. Mostly the same between them all. Considering the other Great Ones we encounter are stronger than Flora, they could also most likely have knowledge of the events from before and recognize the Good Hunter as well. As for how they'd react to the blood? I'd say either cautious or inquisitive.

As for the DLC... Ludwig is an interesting one, being the opposite of most cases in Bloodborne. He turns from a beast back into a man. I feel like that experience along with being in the Nightmare plus his connection to the Moonlight Greatsword would give him an idea of sensing other powers. He is a very caring individual so I feel like he would take notice of the Good Hunter's reactions and body language in this situation, and might even ask about it. Whether or not he gets an answer, I feel like he would have some suspicions as to what's going on. Maria might be the same, as well

And as for Endgame...

Gehrman catches onto everything the second the Good Hunter sets foot into the Dream workshop (again). He's dealt with enough shit to understand the Hunter has something otherworldly about them in some way. But I also feel like he knows about the reset, being forced to relive imprisonment, and fighting the Good Hunter all over again. If anything, I think he'd react to it all with pure sorrow. (Why can't peepaw ever be happy 😭)

Flora would obviously know. And she would be fucking. Pissed. The Good Hunter's strength with the ascension by just its presence would probably weaken her. She knows they got the better of her before and she is going to make sure it doesn't happen again. One thing I do think though, could some of the power be taken from Flora in the past experience? And if so, does she lack that power still in this current run?

BONUS

Micolash would of course sense everything and might even be aware. Is he gonna do or say anything about it? Fuck no. He's probably going to be the exact same. Might even jump through EVEN MORE mirrors. What good research it would be, to see how much you could annoy a Great One!

#bloodborne #bloodborne headcanons #gehrman the first hunter #father gascoigne #ludwig the holy blade #vicar amelia #micolash host of the nightmare #moon presence #thank you for the ask!#and for the get better wishes #i'm trying my best 😭#i must definitely feel better tho because I DIDN'T EXPECT TO WRITE THIS MUCH???#my brain is big with bloodborne #headcanon

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fantomette22 · 11 months

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I just KNOW that I can't be the first one to send you Gehrman because someone is ALWAYS one step ahead of me -_-" So I won't bother and just ask for Laurence himself for the ask meme

Ask game here

So Gehrman is not taken YET but it shouldn't be too long so Let's go with Laurence XD

First impression

Really intriguing and wanting to know more about him. I wasn't sure how to feel yet (the skull/flashback scene)

Impression now

I have so many thoughts on him it's crazy. He's really so interesting ! I love and dislike what he did at the same time. Laurence must be one of the most important bloodborne characters in the lore. What a tragic character.

Favorite moment

Well I wanna say his boss fight for the tragedy aesthetic & music & emotion but it wasn't a really good time to live it either XD

Idea for a story (centered really around 1 character because most of the story I imagined are based around a few each time)

After thinking about it I actually have actually a few story ideas 😂 centered around him or featuring only Laurence :

-His childhood (when he was taken in by Willem)

-His scholarship at Byrgenwerth/his harsh time as a student and how he become friend with Gehrman. (Also he was kinda a clown class too)

-His little clerical adventure away from Yharnam to be trained as a Cleric

-I guess his point of view during a hunt could be interesting/when he heal patient in the grand cathedral.

-After the dream was established and his ultimate downfall...

Unpopular opinion

I think Laurence is a really nuanced/ gray character. I don't think he's the ultimate devil (like all the time especially from the beginning, but I don't think he's just a victim of everything either. Yes he screw up really bad. And find out the hard way.

I think at the beginning he really wanted to help people. Then to achieve his goals, that it should do whatever it takes. Be ready to make sacrifice, and really bad thing. I think his ego became way ti huge too. Then... then... at the end he realized he screw up. But it was too late to fix everything, to make things right.

Favorite relationship

Oh that one is interesting. Actually I will talk about a few ok? XD

Well of course his relationship with Gehrman is so interesting to me. They seems to had a long, close and common history. In his nightmares Gehrman call for him and Willem after all. I really wish we knew more, what happened so he trust him and rely on him that much ? How they became friends? I am normal about this 2

Of course his relationship with Willem and the other scholars of Byrgenwerth. Wish we knew more

His relationship with Ludwig of course ! ahhh

Depend the interpretations but hm if Brador did knew Laurence (likewise with Amelia) I wish we knew more

Also we have 0 proof in canon but I like to imagined his relationship with Caryll and Maria. Caryll seems to have work with the church closely and Maria even more.

Favorite headcanon

Hm ok that one is tricky... hm...

I wanna hc his beast form actually used to look more like the bloodletting beast (I will die on that one ! XD)

He was so fascinated by the watchdog of the old lords (you know fire too)

The golden pendant was a gift from all his close relatives/ friends when the healing church was founded.

#laurence the first vicar #my asks #ask game #bloodborne headcanons #update : first hunter slot is taken XD #bloodborne

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heavenlymorals · 2 years

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Sanguine Sanctum: Prologue: Exodus

Summary: After the Healing Church stormed Castle Cainhurst, the princes, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, and Ivar had to escape. Where do they go? To the city of Yharnam.

I can't believe I finally put forth an idea that I conceptualized since February. A miracle, to be honest. Hopefully the next part (yes, this will be in parts, instead of chapters) won't take nine months to come out 😃 Also, I don't think it's that necessary to know about Bloodborne to enjoy this fic ❤

@pomegranates-and-blood I believe you wanted to be tagged? I hope you enjoy this ❤

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Every now and then, there would be a bump. The wheels of the carriage would get lodged onto some small pebble or into a dip in the road before overcoming and continuing onwards, the clopping of the horses’ hooves wringing out into the night, becoming a duet with the wind, which howled, savage and unsettled. The carriage kept moving, and the small little bumps would make the coach box jump slightly, almost like the flinching of a small child who got frightened by some strange crash.

In the coach were four boys, four boys who sought each other’s comfort in silence, four boys whose eyes, each a different shade of blue, juxtaposed with their faces. It wasn’t right. It was almost unsettling. It was unnerving because those eyes were not the eyes of young boys. A young boy’s eyes should be bright, wide, and teeming with wistful curiosity and beautiful ignorance. Here, it was not the case. No, sir, no. They had saddened eyes, doleful eyes, woeful eyes that aged them far beyond their youth, and terrified eyes that shattered any possible allusion of boyhood dreams.

It wasn’t as if they were truly ignorant of the world’s plight, humanity, no. They knew that humanity wasn’t this pure thing. If it was, then there wouldn’t need to be such things as laws and punishments and so on and so forth. If humanity was pure, then it wouldn’t be this filthy parasite that bored into the womb of the most fertile mother, the earth, and feasted upon everything good that she could offer. They all knew the world to be cruel, even the youngest of the bunch, who saw nine moons, but that cruelty was more like some distant fairytale than anything sowed into the souls of man from the absolute beginning that they were created. Their history lessons spoke of things such as war and conquest and the barbarism of such things, and they always acknowledged it, but it always seemed a concept so far away, so outlandish, to be anything real. To be anything that could actually happen to them.

They had their eyes opened. If one was to be more gruesome, it was as if a doctor had taken his scalpel and carved away their eyelids, tutting “oh, you don’t want these”, and then leaving them to wallow in their pain like stuck pigs, all whilst they screamed for him to stop, to go to hell. Too much. Too much. They will never be innocent boys again. They will never be foolish boys again.

How could they? Everything was taken away from them just like that! Everything, everything! It was still hard to process. So here they are, like vagabonds, though they weren’t, running away from danger, that they were.

Here in the cold, cold carriage, they sat in colder silence. Every now and then, a tear would drip down their youthful faces and they would wipe it away, though they said nothing about that. What would there be to say?

The oldest boy, Ubbe, opted to say: “It’ll be alright. We’ll be ok.”

His voice wavered, quivered. He wanted to sound like a man, but he wasn’t. He was fourteen. He was just a scared boy. It made what should have been words of encouragement and hope sound more like a question.

The second eldest of the bunch, Hvitserk, thirteen, had nothing to say. He only wrapped his arms more tightly around his knees. Anymore tight and he might break a bone. Hvitserk always followed Ubbe around, like a persistent shadow that was impossible to get rid of. Even if Ubbe was to stand in the shadow of a building, the shadow that was Hvitserk would always be darker than the shadow itself, always noticeable, a silhouette that could never be shooed away, not by hook or by crook. He was always agreeable to what Ubbe would want, always his steadfast companion, but this time, his silence was a defiance to Ubbe’s unsure words.

Will it be alright? Will they be ok?

They weren’t sure. Here, in this coach, in this small little coach that seemed to shrink a centimeter smaller in its dimensions with each passing moment, confining them, crushing them, they weren’t sure.

How could they be? Their entire world burned right in front of them. Their home, their friends, ashes to ashes.

Sigurd, number three, only stared at Ubbe with shock in those strange eyes of his. The eyes, a color that was this unnervingly pale blue, and a left pupil, that looked as if it melted like wax from a candle, seemed to seethe with a fine cocktail of anger and disgust, all whilst being laced underneath with helpless grief. Altogether, the flavor of the drink was a fine blend of disappointment and overall grief. Sigurd was eleven years of age, but he had a musician’s soul. He felt emotions strongly, but he was also a realist. It was a strange combination, but it was one that made Sigurd feel disgusted at Ubbe’s words. Strange. He knew the words were meant to comfort, but he didn’t want to be comforted. He wanted to scream and yell and hit. The coach did not offer such luxuries.

Ivar, the youngest, seemed to cave in on the words. He sat on Ubbe’s right, leaning on him lightly, but now, he seemed to sink in entirely on Ubbe’s side, as if Ubbe’s body was quicksand who was enveloping him whole. He wasn’t though. And Ivar did not fight the arm that snaked around him, holding him closer, and carding its fingers through his thick head of dark brown head. Ivar was an enigma. At first glance, when one says this of Ivar, one might think of it physically. As in Ivar’s physical body. He was born crippled. His lower body, the bones to be exact, was much weaker than his upper body, and his legs wilted. Of course, since they were living in a world of modern medicine, they were able to negate as much damage as possible, but most of the time, he needed assistance to move around. All his brothers grew up healthy and strong, so Ivar’s frailty was a question but it was not the enigma.

The actual enigma that was Ivar was his mind. He was smart as a whip, quick-witted, and unnervingly cunning, even at his tender age. He would usually keep his nose in books and whenever he got an idea, there would be hell to pay by someone. His intelligence was always one step away from the madness and that thin line seemed to be trampled on in this coach that marked that nothing will be the same ever again.

His mouth would sometimes wobble and his eyes were small waterfalls streaking his face with salty tears. Poor boy! Poor boys!

Will they be ok?

Silence. The answer was silence.

And silence? Well, she was a strange mistress. No questions, no answers, no nothing came from her stitched mouth.

Ubbe tightened his arm around Ivar and Ivar did not try to break free. Hvitserk still held his knees close to his chin. Sigurd was still unsure whether he should start cursing everything and everyone in this dratted world or follow his younger brother’s lead and just cry whilst being motivated to cry more because of the strange cocktail of silence and fear that was thick and soupy in the small space of the coach box.

The wheels of the coach continued to spin, crushing small pebbles underneath its wake. The hooves of the horses were like hammers on the road. The road wasn’t dirt anymore, it was cobblestone, and the sound of the hooves was much louder than before. A gust of wind rustled the ancient trees, assaulting the leaves, and the single caw of a crow could be heard out in the distance, another voice to this song of despair.

It was funny though. All of these sounds, all of these different songs wove an ambiance that, even in their gloomy state, could be beautiful, yet all they could hear was silence. Maybe they already were going mad. After all, things like these happen! One time, Ivar showed them a small newspaper clipping of a man getting sent to some madhouse by his cousins because he loved his lady too dearly and he couldn’t cope. She died of some strange ailment that ate her from the inside out. He was an important man too, some Yharnamite Lord, so of course, he would have a clipping dedicated to his madness.

Now of course they didn’t lose their wives or anything of the sort, being far too young. They lost their family. Their entire world.

They were Princes of Castle Cainhurst. Oh, everyone knew of Castle Cainhurst.

It was the gothic palace that rested on the mountains right next to the countryside of Yharnam. It was the cultural marvel of this charming land. It was the congregation of the most adept scholars and professors. It was the home of the most glamorous royalty, always so intelligent and cunning. It was the place where the Great Ones were felt most strongly. It was a place that was of a godly nature, a divine nature. It was where greatness bred like rabbits in a field of primrose, plentiful.

It was the gothic palace that rested on the mountains right next to the countryside of Yharnam. It was the coven of witches and the brooding nest of vampires. It was the place where the Great Ones were felt most strongly. It was a place that was of a heathen nature, a hedonist nature, too natural and too grotesque in its culture and its beliefs. It was where evil bred like mosquitoes on a bog, plentiful.

Which version of the castle was the right one? Number one or number two? Maybe one? Maybe two? Maybe both? Neither?

Did it matter anymore? Castle Cainhurst is gone. Perhaps the building is still there but everything that mattered is gone.

The nobility, the servants, the knights? Gone. Dead. Ubbe remembered running like a bat out of the hottest hell and then tripping on a puddle of blood, his shoes squeaking on the wet floor, over the severed body of some Lady whose face was covered in too much blood for him to make out who it was. She wore a green satin dress that was so overwhelmed by the blood that it turned almost black. He was only able to make out the color because it was visible by only a centimeter on the hems of the bottom of her sleeve.

Hvitserk was right behind him and suffered the same fate. His boot slipped on the puddle of blood and his face crashed violently onto the ground. No doubt that he tasted blood, both his own and the woman’s as he lifted his face up from the nightmare, wiping it away violently with the bishop sleeve of the fine white shirt he was wearing. Red, red, red.

Both the boys stopped in their shock. It seemed as if they were connected, an invisible string puppeteering both their minds together in order for them to behave the same.

Screams. They heard screams.

But they didn’t move, too scared. The world seemed to revolve around them in slow motion, with every single second feeling like a single hour.

Eventually, they felt hands grasping at their collars, hoisting them upwards and breaking them out of their trance, and then pushing them forwards to keep running They turned around reluctantly, anxious to see whether it was a friendly face or the black-garbed figures who ravaged this most sacred place.

A friendly face! Lady Siggy! They always regarded her as a sort of Aunt, as she was a dear friend to her highness, Queen Aslaug, and would sometimes take care of them when they were younger. Her hair, flames of Auburn, and her eyes, rings of ice, made her seem like a sort of fae in this absolute nightmare. She quickly barked at them to run, to go, and to not look back. They nodded, their lips wobbling as tears pricked their eyes but they ran as far as they could carry themselves.

What happened to Siggy? She suffered the same fate as the woman with the green satin dress. A member of the executioners found her and gave her no time to plea for mercy. She was shot dead like a dog over the other woman. Good, good. It was a kinder death than what those men in grey and holy white would usually give their victims.

“By the will of the Healing Church, I order you to stop!” A muffled male voice spoke, joined in a ghastly duet by the wind, which screeched like a banshee.

The coach came to a halt, jerking the boys forward. They quickly recovered and each looked at the other with wide blue eyes. Ivar slipped away from his brother’s grasp and quickly pushed his little head out the window. His teeth began to chatter as he was hit with a cold gust of wind, swirling in his face, toying with his dark hair and lashes like a specter whose harm was unintentional and simply bound to the gears of a world that took both misery and glee with open arms and no hate to either. Instinctively, the young boy ground his teeth, and before he was pulled back into the coach by his older brother, he caught a quick glimpse of the figure who commanded the cease.

The man was cocooned in all black, save for the glimpses of silver that shone brilliantly under the gaze of the looming moon, projecting its silver luminescence onto them all. Under him was an equally black horse, rocking gently to the left and right. They looked connected to each other, one single being. Once, Ivar read a book speaking on the conquerors of old. A small little footnote nestled snugly in the passages was of how the natives of the raped lands would cower in fear under the sight of the horsemen. They’d never seen such things as horses and believed that both the horse and the man were one and the same. In this brief glance of the man on the steed, Ivar now understood how they could’ve thought that.

They stayed as still as they could, listening to what will happen next.

“Hello, good sir. Quite the weather we’re having, aye?” That was their carriage driver’s voice. His name was Floki. They’ve known him for so long, that it seemed he was always there. He was the one who led their prodigal father to Castle Cainhurst. He was the one who pledged his allegiance to the heathen ways of Cainhurst, thus to their mother as well. She trusted him. Mother was smart. She knew that this would one day happen, so she made sure that her boys would be able to get to Floki safely. He lived with his wife in a cottage on the outskirts of the country. Close enough to be next to the castle but not close enough to garner suspicion of the church. They all liked Floki. He was fun to be around, always told the best stories, and despite his inklings of madness, he was still as reliable as an old oak in a thunderstorm. Ivar liked him best though.

The clopping of horse hooves continued briefly before stopping. They heard the man sliding off the saddle of the animal before walking to the carriage. The coach shifted a bit to the side as the man put his weight on the thing.

“Indeed. Perhaps they got the almanac wrong. I’m sure that there wasn’t supposed to be this much wind today. But I did not stop you here to discuss the weather.”

“Of course not, sir. What is going on?”

The carriage shifted a bit. The man must’ve relieved the body from its surface. The man’s voice, which was already quite deep, took on a persona of shrewd business, which made it seem all the more profound, even though they were quite certain that the octaves of his voice did not change a single bit.

“The church has been on the lookout for …vagabonds now, I suppose, though I prefer ‘them who are guilty of blasphemy and sacrilege’. The church has finally cast its sword once more at Castle Cainhurst but some of the bastards have managed to escape. We’ve been tasked with stopping all carriages and coaches to make sure that they are not providing service for anyone who does not deserve it.”

They could hardly breathe. They knew that the vagabonds in question were them.

Floki let out a gasp. He could be a good actor when he puts his mind to it. “Ah, isn’t that the nature of heathens? To be slippier than an eel in an oil slick? It’s no matter, by the will of God, you will find them soon enough.”

The man chuckled at the analogy. “Amen. Still though, please get off the coach. That goes for anyone inside as well. Understand that it is just a precaution. And may you have no reason for that precaution to exist.”

“Of course not, brother. Boys! Get out for a moment, would you please?”

Ice. All they felt was ice. It was a miracle that Ubbe was able to push the door open to get out. They felt so cold and frozen that it became a labor to simply move. They moved though, and one by one they jumped out of the spartan coach. Ubbe grabbed Ivar and hoisted him up before following his brothers.

They stood by the side of the road and watched mindlessly as the man, who had their backs turned on them, began to usher a few more men behind him to examine the coach. Those men were the church’s bloodhounds. The eldest two, Ubbe and Hvitserk, were able to tell rather quickly. They’ve seen them before when they were brought to Yharnam inconspicuously by their mother or father. Mother never brought them to Yharnam without some sort of disguise. She shielded them from the eyes of Yharnam so much that the ‘princes of Cainhurst’ might as well be a fairytale. The garbs the bloodhounds wore were rather iconic and made them stand out amongst the populous and the other members of the Healing Church. The black coats hung to their shins, and they were always open, showing black pants and black vests, and shiny black boots, which were interrupted somewhat by the white gloves and the holy shawl that fluttered proudly on their backs. On their head was a brimmed hat, which continued the pattern of black. On their belts were their chosen weapon, the infamous threaded cane, and a hunter’s pistol. A satchel was also on their belt, holding whatever it is they needed. Silver bullets, blood vials, scripture, all of that.

It would seem somewhat repetitive to say, but these men became known as the black church hunters. Their father once told them that the church would like to describe these humble servants as rudimentary doctors who deal with the bestialis morbus by ‘early’ prevention. That early prevention would consist of disposing of potential victims of the disease, sometimes even before any symptoms would set in place. Because of this, the holy garb that they wore became synonymous with fear and paranoia, something Yharnam was all too familiar with.

Among the men, they noticed, was a single woman. Her attire mirrored her brothers’, but instead of pants and a vest, she had a long black twill skirt that was only a few centimeters from touching the ground and an equally black bodice that was laced in a way that did enhance the shape of her waist but still held on to religious modesty. She walked towards them and looked them up and down with a critical gaze. She probably wanted to discern whether or not they were those ‘heathens’ that escaped the divine retribution of the church. From her sash, she picked up a dagger that was gilded with silver. On the handle was a clandestine rune. Something magical. Something to reveal.

“Hello, boys. I am sorry to ask this of you, but please. May I see your hand? I promise this won’t hurt you.”

“...What will you do?” Ubbe asked quietly, his grasp on Ivar tightening. Ivar gasped a little at the strength of his brother’s arms and wiggled to let him know that he was hurting him. Ubbe relieved the pressure.

“I will make a small cut on the tip of your finger. Silver hurts those who are cut from sacrilegious cloth. It is almost as if they are touching hellfire.”

Refraining from showing his surprise, Ubbe only nodded. He trusted his mother. Before they left, she put on them a charm that was supposed to conceal them from the church’s methods, whatever they were, of revealing ‘heathens’. Cainhurstians. It must have hurt her since she almost collapsed after doing so. It made sense, though. It must’ve taken a lot of energy for her to conceal her sons’ true natures, their ‘demonic’ abilities regarding the arcane of blood magic.

Ubbe nodded and held out his hand while the other was still hooked around Ivar. The woman gently took his hand, unwrapping one finger with a gentle movement covered by soft white cloth, and brought the edge of the knife to surgically place one almost unnoticeable cut. Instinctively, Ubbe closed his eyes. He half expected to go out in flames but he felt nothing. The cold wind also seemed to numb the sting somewhat. Nothing happened. He wasn’t engulfed in flames and he wasn’t howling in pain. As he opened his eyes, he saw one speck of blood on the tip of his finger and that he was still standing. Satisfied, the woman nodded under her brimmed hat and moved one by one with the other brothers. She saved Ivar for last, and surprisingly, he was compliant with the request, not struggling against it. The same happened to him. He didn’t scream or be damned. Ubbe doubt he even felt it.

The man who stopped the carriage was looking at the other men who were turning the coach inside out, to find anything that might’ve been contraband in their eyes. Thankfully, Floki knew what to do. Any of their personal belongings were still at his cabin, but he hid them in a place no one would be able to find but him. Magic, probably, maybe a tear between the realms where he snuck them in, but that was simply a guess amongst many other guesses. Floki also made sure to strip them of their princely attires and instead fit them into ratty canvas pants with flayed suspenders and stained white shirts. The shoes hurt their feet, devoid of the comfort and support that their usual footwear provided them. Their hair was tousled, and their under eyes and cheeks were glazed over with soot to give them a sort of sallow appearance. Floki was good at makeup. In any case, they looked nothing like princes and Cainhurst was rather infamous for its vanity. Mother would be aghast if it weren’t for the circumstances they were in. Father, wherever he was, would laugh.

The woman stood up and brushed her knees. She picked up the small lantern to look inside her pouch and pulled out a piece of cloth to wipe away the blood on the dagger. She did this with each prick. She did not bother with them. As she completed her task, she went to Floki and did the same to him. Despite owning his allegiance to Cainhurst, he was not one of them by blood, which explained why he was able to get away with not being found out. As she was doing the same ritual with Floki, the man who stopped the coach walked towards them and lifted the lantern to his face.

Finally, he wasn’t just a blob of black in midnight pitch. His face was sharp and angular, and his eyes were a blue paler than ice. He might’ve looked handsome if it weren’t for the fact that his eyebrows and lashes were so thin and so blonde that it looked like they didn’t even exist. On his head was a black leather tricorne, a hunter’s cap, and on his neck swung a rosary that depicted the sigil of the church, instead of the shawl that the men under him wore. Being of a higher rank, he had an inlay of silver on his chest, bracers, and boots. The pride of the moon was silver, a holy thing that protected against the unholy. So, that is what the church says. On his back was a saw cleaver, a gnarly weapon against beasts, or so the books say. It was also inlaid with silver.

“So what brings you out here, boys? It is quite late to be traveling.”

Ubbe felt as if his tongue turned to a sponge, a sponge covered in ashes. He managed to talk without a waver in his voice, somehow, someway. “We’re going to Yharnam for the holidays with our uncle Floki.” It wasn’t technically a lie. They considered Floki their uncle and the holidays truly were around the corner.

The man smiled. It was unsettling. Charming and bright, but unsettling. Ubbe felt a shiver shoot up his spine. Perhaps it was his lashless eyes.

“Ah. Well, I hope you will have a wonderful time. Yharnam has an interesting way of welcoming her guests, but I hope you have a good time. Assuming you’re cleared, of course.”

They all nodded.

“Of course,” Hvitserk whispered.

The man then noticed the streaks of tears on Ivar’s face, on all of their faces. He frowned. “Is something wrong? It looks as if you have finished weeping?”

Floki spoke to the man about this one. “Their mother passed away. Killed by bandits. She loved the holidays so dearly that it always reminds them of her.” The best lies were the ones that were shrouded in truth.

The man nodded sagely. “May she rest in peace.”

If it weren’t so horrible, they would all laugh.

As if on cue, one of the men that checked the coach walked up to his leader and whispered that everything was fine. The man nodded and his eerie smile turned wider. He then muttered something under his breath, definitely Latin, but the blowing wind made it choppy. He was probably reciting the gospel. He then turned back to them. Any concern he may have had for them was instead replaced by a manic, almost sycophantic religious zeal. His sharp, unnerving smile was back. It unsettled them greatly. Something was so, so wrong.

“May you be blessed! By the grace of all that is holy! Take care. Keep warm. Yharnam is rather cruel during the winter.”

He brought his gloved hand and patted the top of Ivar’s head. Ivar pushed him away and then hid his face in Ubbe’s shoulder. Ubbe gasped and from the corner of his eye, he saw the man balling his fist. His genial grin turned placid.

“Come now, Ivar, don’t be rude to this kind man…” As he looked at Ivar, and Ivar looked at him, his eyes screamed: just play along. At least for now. No. Get used to it.

The man waved his hand and his smile returned. “Oh, it’s quite alright. He’s probably angry that he had to be out in the cold.” His gaze then reverted to Ivar. “You know what you want, little one. That is good.”

Ivar glared at him. Stubborn boy.

They finally let them go, and the bumping and creaking of the rickety carriage returned to remind them of where they were going.

To Yharnam. To hide right under the church’s nose. How poetic.

Finally, they made it to the city.

The moon was in her fullest form. The markings on it almost made it look like an all-seeing eye, directing its ethereal gaze on the gothic city that seemed to stretch on for miles on end. Pyramid pinnacles grazed the clouds like demonic fingers. Bulky buttresses trailed endlessly upwards, a friend to the clouds. All the buildings looked so cluttered together but the baroque details that haunted all the walls instilled it with a glaring charm that seemed to conquer their minds. Chapels and cathedrals dotted the city, a city ever so stalwart with its allegiance with the church, and simply enforced the intricate architecture that was as beautiful as it was disheartening. The colors were always so dark, so drab, and the only things that attempted to lighten the atmosphere somewhat were the red lamps that hung on the staircases or were fixated on a sconce, and the golden lights that would gare through windows in darkened alleyways. Whatever joy the lights brought was then overshadowed by the marble statues depicting veiled saints weeping and mourning. Anyone could appreciate how intricate the statues were, how delicate the faces were, how expressive their gestures were, and how realistic the folds of the cloth were, but in this already too despairing city, it just made it darker.

The smog covering the skyline also didn’t help in that aspect.

They could do nothing as they watched the buildings pass by them as Floki encouraged the horses to continue moving.

Cainhurst was no more. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure that out, especially now. Especially them, since they saw the carnage right in front of them.

They will now reside in Yharnam, by the will of their late mother, since she practically owned the city before the church had enough of her games, and pray to whoever will listen that they will survive and perhaps even thrive, but it is never good to be that hopeful.

After all, who could call Yharnam a city that inspired hope other than madmen?

#vikings #ivar the boneless #hvitserk ragnarsson #ubbe ragnarsson #sigurd snake in the eye #ivar lothbrok #ivar ragnarsson #hvitserk lothbrok #ubbe lothbrok #sigurd lothbrok #vikings fanfiction #fanfic #bloodborne au #floki #vikings floki

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katyspersonal · 2 years

Note

Hey hey! Real quick, what's your dynamic for Queen Annalise and King Cain? You are one of the only two people with a king in mind lol. Also, Anna is underrated she deserves some interest

Thems!!!!!!!!!!!

Well first things first, 'Cain' is a nickname I do use so far as I don't know what his real name could be yet. Naming characters is THE hardest part don't @ me! It is lost in translation but it is said that name of Queen Yharnam has been inherited for generations, so I came up with this headcanon that upon unholy marriage by Pthumerian ritual (with ring of betrothal you can propose to Annalise with, in order to start conception of a blood child) they do assume these names. A Queen assumes name Yharnam, and a King assumes name Cain. Something that ended up not happening because Executioners bursted in before the ritual was complete.

Annalise and Cain have been friends since childhood as Cain, and current Crow of Cainhurst, were children of the staff (the guy executing the wrongdoers that deserved (?) it, never pictured on the portraits because that's not a worker anyone needs to know the face of). Cain seemed to have been keeping somewhat of a respectful 'distance' since age like, 6, when he started to understand his and others' feelings more but it was not because of her status as a princess. Rather, he just admired her as a person - smart, talented, already acting regal in moreso serious than spoiled way. He early learned that lying to her or arguing with her was a bad idea so they formed a bond where he would be genuine with her and give her advices in such a way that it'd feel as if she came up with a good decision instead. Annalise, on the other hand, learned to appreciate the rare person not trying to benefit from her status, nor attempting serious influence on her. It is a kind of friend royalties gotta learn to treasure as they're so rare.

Around teen years, like 15, Cain would develop a habit to bring her various gifts he'd make himself passing them as 'just gestures for his friend' but Annalise wasn't stupid, and it was the first time since childhood they had a bad fight again because... well, he forgot that lying to her was a bad idea now? xD She wasn't stupid and realised his crush and was upset he'd try to be elusive about it. But he had a reason to, because they did not even have a hope to marry when they're older - as a princess she did have to think about "continuing the bloodline" and all that nonsense, right? Needed to marry someone efficient for the purpose.

She also had a say on his gifts being cute but 'pointless' since she could have bought everything she wanted anyways, however he'd continue gifting them anyway, and she'd continue to secretly stash them all in a secret room. One of them was a ribbon thing that you see wrapped around the helmet she is wearing in game though that he gifted her when he no longer wanted to wear it - it is now used as a (working) lucky charm to not lose herself completely since her mind transcends physical realm now.

Around time they grew up, thanks to Byrgenwerth, Cainhurst was finally able to get in touch with their lost heritage that they kept failing to retract from the dungeons (just look at all the armours of fallen Cainhurst warriors scattered down there!). Things sort of changed, a lot. Cain became a captain of the Knights (that Maria inspired) and his brother became a guardian tasked with seeking blood dregs for her, but more importantly? They now could marry! Officially!

However that "marriage" would mean a terrible fate for Cain as the 'king' figure is a final sacrifice when the child of blood is born, but at this rate both Annalise and Cain were going almost insane for the prospect of what new future their whole clan could have. If Cain was scared - she'd convince him it was worth it, if Annalise waw scared - he'd convince her he's ready to take fate worse than death for her ambitions and dreams, basically they entered a loop none could escape thanks to the effort of another. His feelings for her only grew stronger though and he was feeling happy - they liked to sit at the two thrones near each other as kids to play and as teens to pretend they could be the royal couple, but now they finally were doing it for REAL!

So yeah as you can see, they still had somewhat imbalanced relationship but funny enough it was not because of their (previously) varying statuses - it was a combination of Cain being a simp malleable and Annalise being assertive. By the time they proceeded with the ritual, both were so insane for their pursuit that they compared with Byrgenwerth scholars themselves and did not realise they were sacrificing the future they did want for the future they had no even clear idea what would bring, for a child they would not even get to raise together! They were desensitised for something more important but by now Annalise came to her senses and regrets having lost the sight of simple things that made her human... err, vampire? Well you get the point!

She won't say it though, but even if now Executioners are not here to abort a second attempt at a blood child, she won't try again even with as much as a stranger she has no big backstory with, so she refuses our proposing. Not much because of feeling too lonely to give a company already - she used to it over many years, plus she can transcend dimensions while asleep as someone with immortal mind even if her body is dead. But mostly because that'd be an admission Cain was just a 'pawn', a 'failed attempt' and be a disgrace to his fate; it is too late but it doesn't mean she should proceed after such a horrible mistake. I'd say it is a rare courage to stop with the wrong way even if it is too late to redeem and repent and mistakes can't be fixed, something all the mad clerics + scientists in the settings did NOT have, so maybe I hurried to compare her with an average Byrgenwerth student?..

(Needless to mention that for this sort of "marriage" gender of the 'king' figure doesn't matter (we can propose no matter what gender our Hunter is!). If the person is by default infertile of just isn't packed with what they need to impregnate the 'queen' with a child of blood - they undergo a painful physical change as part of a ritual, though.)

Also slight notice, he is shorter than her!

#bloodborne #annalise queen of the vilebloods #king of cainhurst #doodles #yes i just copy pasted him from one of the portraits #ask replies #bloodborne headcanons #honestly though so far the only person with 'the sacrifice was a mistake we must stop' vibe #others just go 'well sacrifices were made so we CAN'T stop now' *glares at laurence and micolash*#she still sips the blood dregs tho because you are not yourself when you are hungry fdhdhsfsd #poor cain his love was an insanity #well technically he is still alive as spirit but it is... complicated #he is an amalgam with logarius now because killing someone this charged with power of cursed ritual?#logarius could not have inherited such dying will without consequences #it is virtually impossible to split them now though especially since logarius has more control #thanks for ask val!#also jokes on you i have EVERY character in bloodborne in mind #even that one corpse you pick black church set from #rip adella's ex you will not be forgotten by me :pensive:

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scrawnytreedemon · 2 years

Note

I'm gonna give you a funky one on that ask game bc for some godforsaken reason I had a dream last night that you and me were chasing Micolash, The Host of Nightmare, around in his lovely boss arena

Post-Nibelheim Sephiroth and Micolash. Do the flavors of crazy mix or is it rank?

HKGHJKJFHGKJHSFGFKJSH E XCUSE M E DID YOU READ MY MIND??? HA K U THIS IS E X A C T LY WHAT I WAS THINKING WHEN I DREAMT UP THIS ASK GAME, OH MY G O D--

(no, nO, N O HE’S FUCKINGNGNGN HAUNTING US AGAIN, THE FUCKING BASTARD-- We’ll never be free of him. Never. DAMN HIM AND HIS HOWLS!!)

Right, PRESUMABLY(I’ve had to write this section AGAIN because Tumblr’s text editor threw a shit-fit and went blank), Sephiroth did some dimension-hopping, and ended up here in Yharnam. Completely alone, he follows Mergo’s cries, slays Rom, and makes it into the Nightmare of Mensis. When he eventually gets to Micolash, the MOMENT they make eye-contact it’s like 👁👁, 👁👁, because they’ve BOTH got fuckigngngn level-99 Insight - PROBABLY EVEN MORE.

Sephiroth, seeing his fucking chance, explains his predicament, and asks for aid in the form of research. The guy gives him Bad Vibes™, but at this point he’s just... fucking done with human qualms. Micolash, overwhelmed with a sense of 👁👁, obliges, because what the fuck, that’s the real deal right there, holy shit - Here’s some actual fucking proof that Humanity has a chance at ascension, the culmination of all his life(and afterlife)’s work.

So he gives Sephiroth free-reign of his library(albeit, not without some reservations - This is his life’s work, after all), and in turn, Sephiroth explains to him what he saw behind the veil, confirming Micolash’s ideas regarding the higher plane, and that there’s several - He’s astounded by how much Sephiroth is able to relay, and not only that, but how he’s able to translate it into vaguely-human thought. Perhaps there’d be a moment of solidarity, where they can both peel back the veneer of humanity, and be something Half Other.

But of course, solidarity is... far from the only thing they experience.

Sephiroth is... well, he’s curious, and contemptuous, and repulsed, oddly grateful but also oddly perturbed. There’s a part of him, inevitably so, reminded of his father in this similarly strange, obsessive man - Only he’s milder, and almost... absent, in the way that nearly inspires a sort of pity. And he’s amiable. All too amiable. He doesn’t like the way he stares; looks at him, like he’s some sort of curiousity.

And he is - Gaia knows, Sephiroth is - But even still it makes a part of him squirm.

He ignores it.

At least here it’s being put to use.

For Micolash, there’s an overwhelming sense of Discovery - Fruition, everything clicking together. Maybe, perhaps, if he offers himself and all he has, puts forth his faith, they’ll finally make it. Everything he, Willem, Laurence and everyone they’d ever strung along could have ever hoped for - Ascension, well and truly. Though, Sephiroth is a pupa yet. Caution would bid him well. Yes, yes: be eager, but also watchful.

If push comes to shove, there’s always the Wetnurse. And if not Her, then the rest of Yharnam’s heavenly host.

But here, let us not think of such things.

I think, as the dynamic, the endeavour, progresses, and Sephiroth wanders out and returns, there’s a sense of... well, not quite home, but a roost - A loft, if you will. Micolash offers all he can(within reason), and Sephiroth takes it, tentatively.

I think there’d come a point where they begin to see shades of those they loved in each other.

I think for Micolash, he sees that promise of hope, that Promethean spark he once saw in Laurence. The bent in Sephiroth’s shoulders - Yes, yes, - The look of someone who’d carried a world. Now this was something he could put his faith in; a vessel for him to gather up all his hopes and dreams, and pour in. Oh, and what a fight, too! Marvelous, majestic; he could wrend galaxies with a mere sweep of his blade, if he wanted to; if he grew.

Maybe, perhaps, a little piece of him pleas, unheard even to he, he could give him his love back, too; fill in the gaping pit left by his beloved.

For Sephiroth it’s... far more sordid. There’s the professor, yes, but there’s more - There’s Genesis; what he was, what he could have been. The obsession, the musical longing for some higher grace - Wasn’t that what brought him here in the first place? Without Genesis, without the pain and the hurt and the abandonment and the utter lack of regard for human life, he wouldn’t be here. Should he feel thankful? Yes, he must suppose, for being shown this truth - Something like bitterness wells inside him.

He wonders if he ought to take them to those caves; explore them together -

No. Never.

Where we go from here... honestly depends on what the fuck happens in that plot. Perhaps, in a bid for higher power, Sephiroth challenges the Wetnurse and slays Mergo thereafter, only to be tailed by a rally of Great Ones, willing to set their differences aside, and vanquish this burgeoning upstart. He’ll survive; whole or otherwise.

Maybe they link forces proper, and Sephiroth brings Micolash or some emissary of his to Gaia, to further exercise his will. Maybe they grow closer; maybe it remains uneasy still; maybe Sephiroth throws him - No, absorbs him - The moment their distinction is no longer needed. Time will tell.

Or Sephiroth leaves. Slips into the night, without another word,

And Micolash is left sitting there, shaking his head, bemoaning another loose thread.

No matter, he thinks; there’ll always be something later; something more.

He stuffs his aching heart into the recesses beyond his chest,

Where it belongs.

~~~

There is, of course, the unexplored possibility of, you know, genuine fucking respect on either side - But, I’m gonna be real, I think that requires a Sephiroth other than directly post-Nibelheim Sephiroth for it to work... and I’m not sure which one.

Post-Compilation/Remake Seph seems to have genuinely opened himself up to the possibilities of the universe beyond divide-and-conquer, and yet at the same time he seems so laser-focused on Cloud it’s hard to imagine him considering anyone other. Likewise, AC Seph, playful as he is, is ultimately driven by a character-defining hatred for Cloud that serves as the purpose for his revival. Sephiroth has spiralled so much into reality-defining obsession that I struggle to imagine anything capable of snapping him out of it; or, at least, having him look elsewhere, if but for a moment.

Micolash, likewise is... murky. I’ve done my best with what I have, even bringing in consideration from deleted dialogue, but the fact is that he is what he is; a hint; a window into the insanity of the church; its splinters. Something that posits the question of how-far-is-human, even when the flesh itself seems unrendered - And I think that’s what gets me,

No, he’s not exactly like Seph, not by a long shot; but they have been irrevocably changed in their personhood, their humanity, via revelation. In better circumstances, Sephiroth could have easily gone the entirety of his life feeling at least mostly human; it’s what he’s subjected to, the knowledge of himself, his origins, his nature that flicks the switch, and his death-rebirth that serve not only to immerse him but cement this as fact - That he is different, enlightened, and it ought to be him making the choices in regards not only humanity’s, but the Planet’s future.

I dunno.

There’s something here that I’m... getting close to putting my finger on, but not quite. Or I could just be making it up; and to that I say! ...Sure! I don’t think this is at all what either development team intended, necessarily, but even still. There’s something very satisfying in taking Fandom-Darling Sephiroth and sitting him next to Micolash, Host of the Utter Batshit, and seeing how they compare.

Anyhow! I spent wayyy too long on this. Thank you for asking, Haku! I apologise for any braincells obliterated in the process. I’ll compensate you with lemon-cake, god-willing 🙏

Thank you, viewer, for reading this too.

The offer of lemon-cake still stands.

#sephiroth #micolash host of the nightmare #ffvii #bloodborne #fromsoft #ask game #scrawny rambles #scrawny answers #meta #and! for the record! i don't think inhumanity is necessarily a bad thing #look speaking as an ~autist~ myself #the idea has always enamoured me #and like... look... i'm not SAYING these too are #bUT--#who am i kidding i kinda definitely am-- *have* for sephiroth at least #the issue *ofc* lies that much of it stems from a desire to completely disconnect from some of the weaker #or more sordid aspects of human nature #while ironically enough still retaining so much of the brutality #compare: micolash's disdain for 'beastly idiocy' and sephiroth's detachment from human emotion almost entirely #that cutting yourself off makes you somehow 'better'#this play at rationality that is ultimately irrational and #IRONICALLY ENOUGH #say it with me folks! deeply human.#i think i'll leave it there #but yes i love these two very much i want to throw them in a room together #--WITH LESS MURDER ideally

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cicaklah · 3 years

Note

*ahem* 'Hitman Bloodborne xo"???

I genuinely really want to write this but I’m also kinda scared to? I literally woke up with this concept possessing my thoughts: The serum Lucas gives 47 in hitman 2 is yharnam blood.

so naturally I went mad.

A snip:

“The research ether was doing was a bust”, Lucas says, pacing the floor. He’s usually so still and composed, so his anxiety is surprising.

“You have another idea.” Diana says, and it's a statement, not a question.

“Yes. Blood ministry.”

Diana flinches. “No. Absolutely not.”

“What’s blood ministry?” Olivia asks.

“Madness, insane madness. It's practically a myth these days, but it did happen. Something happened, at least.” Diana says.

“It's real.” Lucas says, and takes a dusty vial out of his pocket. There’s a heavy syringe attached. The needle is short and very sharp.

Diana picks it up like it might explode and looks at Lucas. Her face is steely.

“It's a panacea. It cures all ills. Comes from Yharnam.”

“Where’s Yharnam?”

“Exactly”, Diana says. “Yharnam fell not once, but twice, at least a hundred years ago. The healing church was a cult, They went mad, they were addicted to this pseudo medical blood product, the city was burned to the ground not once, but twice. They think it was some kind of prion disease, in the end, but the things they were doing to the children, you don’t want to know.”

“Diana, it was real. The blood did heal. It had side effects, and was addictive, but it did cure everything.”

“And they all became beasts and were nuked from orbit.”

They glared at each other, at a furious impasse.

“I’ll take it”, 47 says simply. “It will cure my memory problems. I’m strong, I won’t get addicted. I can’t get addicted when there’s only one vial.”

and well, this is IT:

The dream is aflame.

Edwards awaits. A forgotten enemy, long irrelevant in the face of what he stands for.

He offers something, offers to just go back, to forget. But 47 has seen too much. Seen far too much. Has eyes on the inside now, insight, they call it here. Understands. Understands how the babies, how Victoria, how the blue scraps fit together.

What he missed. What he missed. What he now knows.

Edwards died, and then she descends. Artemisia, of the moon, of the secret. Her secrets can't protect her anymore.

She dies, protected by everyone else, and he feels himself change, fundamentally, finally understanding.

Diana. Diana. Diana. Why didn't you tell me?

basically I’ve read WAY too much pureblood hunt and watched too much fear the old lore and I’ve got eyes on the inside now.

#wip ass pussy #meme me #hitman bloodborne au #mtraki

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antihero-writings · 4 years

Text

Or You May Break

Fandom: Bloodborne

Fic Summary: Little red riding hood found the wolf in the woods, yes…but she also found him at home. || A character study/in-depth look into Vicar Amelia's transformation.

Notes: I mostly wrote this after I did Amelia's fight. She's a pretty minor character, but I've always found Amelia interesting, and aesthetically one of the coolest beasts, so I decided to write about her.

She's one of the characters it's hardest to find lore on, so my apologies if any of this is inaccurate. Please don't hesitate to point me to some nice in-depth lore discussions/posts, regardless! I'd love to learn more about her character.

I know there are theories out there that Amelia actually wanted to become beast, due to her prayer, but I like to think she didn't--that she was praying against it. I saw someone say on Reddit that her beastly screams sound slightly like "I don't want this!" I know that was probably just their far-fetched interpretation, but I found it extremely interesting and inspiring. Much like I mentioned my other Bloodborne fic--(The Offspring of a Dream)--I like to see redemption in everything, and this fic will have a lot to do with my positive interpretation of event. Especially since she's a member of the church, I certainly don't think she's innocent, yet at the same time, I think it's interesting that she was very aware she would become a beast, and essentially all she could do was sit and pray, and wait for it to happen. I also think it's interesting how we actually see her transform, all at once. So I wanted to explore all that.

I'd really appreciate it if you could leave a comment!! They really make my week, and motivate me to keep writing!!

I'll put the Ao3 and FF.net links in a reblog!!

Also, I have another Bloodborne fic, the Offspring of a Dream, I'd love it if you'd check out too!! Links in a reblog!!

Or you may break:

She watched the city burn. Not back then, no…but she watched men fall victim to the beasts within. She watched her friends grow horns and teeth. She watched her congregation become slaves to the blood, and the moon. She watched helpless, clutching Laurence’s pendant, kneeling before his beastly skull.

She did the only thing she knew how: she prayed.

She prayed that the plague would leave them, sooner rather than later. She prayed that humanity would find their strength, not give in. She prayed to the gods to give her guidance. She prayed that she wouldn’t fall prey to the beast herself.

As if words were enough to save her. Words and not actions. Words, and not blood.

The blood healed them. The blood turned them into beasts.

The blood was to be feared. The blood was to be praised. In equal measure, like the best of gods. Those things which are truly sacred can bring the worst of judgment.

Surely it was their own indiscretions, their own weaknesses which brought this on. It was because they, human, were too weak to bear the blood of gods that they became, not more holy, but less than themselves.

Our minds are too young to understand the nature of the cosmos. Too green...they must be broken.

In most fairy tales the beasts wait in the woods to pounce. We fear the dark for that’s where they may lie.

Little red riding hood found the wolf in the woods, yes…but she also found him at home, disguised as her closest kin.

She’d been around beasts long enough to know, yes, there were beasts in the woods. Not just the woods; in the cities, in abandoned houses, in the schools…Even in the church yard. They were everywhere. Always watching, waiting…and sometimes they didn’t wait.

But the beasts were at home too. They were our closest family members. They were ourselves. If we dug deep enough into our chests the beast would be there.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do. But when in Yharnam…you’ll do as the Yharnamites do eventually; you would become a beast. There was no question. No choice. No say in the matter…It was inevitable. No one remained human without losing their minds.

There must be a moral in there somewhere.

So the beast most feared wasn’t the hundreds waiting in the forbidden woods…it was the one sitting in your own veins. Still waiting. Waiting to break out of your skin. Devour your flesh, reason, and soul altogether.

And if Laurence couldn’t stop it, then how could someone as weak and breakable as her stop it?

She was soft and gentle, made for domestic life; meant to preach, to teach, not fight beasts.

So Amelia sat in the church, doing just that: softly, gently, preaching to herself, waiting, hoping, dreading, praying.

She knew it was coming for her. Sometimes she thought she could see it, in the corner of her eye. Even if she locked all the doors and prayed her hardest, one day the beast would pounce from her blood. She would never know exactly when, exactly how.

Would it come slowly? Would she watch in agony as her hands, piece by piece, became claws, her skin become fur—another inch each day, feel her jaw aching as it became, day by day, a wolfish snout? The grandmother’s clothes still there, you could almost believe she was still herself…until you looked at the teeth.

Or would it happen all at once, in one moment of sheer misery, without a second to spare, to organize her affairs, or a chance to scream?

And which would be more horrifying?

The members of the church became the worst of beasts. Why was that?

She had faith she could be saved. That they all could be saved. That the city would stop burning.

Time passed, and she dared to think that maybe it wouldn’t come, maybe the gods knew mercy. Maybe their faithful servant would live to see it end.

…Then a hunter walked in the church doors.

She wanted to talk to them, to answer their questions, to ask her own. To tell them she was no beast, and would not hurt them. That she meant no harm, although maybe they ought not come any closer—

—Because—

—They smelled like the moon—

—And she wanted to lick the moon off their fingertips—

—and she might just raid Red’s basket for a taste—

She could feel it in her heart. Something in there was writhing, crawling forward on greedy, bloody knees, desperate to break out. It had always been there, sleeping in its cell, but now it was awake, ready pry out of her ribcage and gobble up the moon on their wings.

The thing pried open her skin, like she was a jar, and this greedy, bloody thing wasn’t a beast…it was her. Herself, breaking out of herself, like some Russian nesting doll of dismay. A version of herself that she didn’t recognize. A version of herself she prayed against. A version of herself she promised wasn’t there.

A part of her that they all knew needed to be hunted.

She had always been soft, always followed the rules. She never had much of a wild streak. But this thing crawling through her veins was feral and untamed. She never knew such savagery, but there was beauty in the breaking.

But emerging from herself was painful; the black, razor claws within reached forward and pierced her chest, her skin erupting, bubbling into fur. The thing crept along her arms and legs, slithered within their veins, elongating them, with jerking, snapping motions, making them into the very claws that broke open herself—(but even with these claws she would not let go of Laurence’s pendant, she would not lose herself within herself). It climbed up her neck like it had a mountaineering pick, seized her face and made it into a snout—her teeth aching, her head splitting open—her hair pulling, lengthening across her body, like a snow made out of needles. …And as she screamed her voice deepened.

It was like fire and lightning, her skin and bones cracking like glass, the room painted red…yet there was a strange ecstasy in it all. This was what she would have guessed being born was like.

Did she want this? She couldn’t quite remember…Who was she? Was she that desperate girl praying at the alter, or was she this greedy thing made of blood and teeth?

She held the pendant tighter, and tried to remember why it was so important, to remember the prayers of that little girl in white.

No. She didn’t want this. To be this. She didn’t want to be a beast. To die as one. She tried to tell this moonlit hunter that…But only screams and roars echoed from her wolfish vocal chords now.

So she only did what she could; she fought for her life, defended herself. As best she could, with her new—still too breakable—beastly limbs. And she clutched the pendant, and she prayed for healing. Prayed that this too would pass. That there was such a thing as a cure.

There was…but it was only in death now.

She lost, still. Everything over as fast as it started. Put down before she could walk the world. She couldn’t save herself in as much as she couldn’t save her congregation.

And the hunter wiped her blood off their blade, and ripped the locket from her claws, and walked into the woods to slay the monsters there…all the while knowing the blood would be their undoing: the beast was waiting for them too. Waiting to pry its way out of their own veins. That one day—no one could know when, though you might want to check the moon—they’d come home, looking for grandmother, and find only the wolf.

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synchronmurmurs · 4 years

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I'm not sure if fully works with the list buuuut, 001 for Bloodborne?

OOOOOO NO THIS IS FINE, I WILL ALSO TAKE ANY EXCUSE TO RAMBLE ABOUT BLOODBORNE THANK YOU 😭💖

001 | Send me a fandom and I will tell you my:

Favorite character: Ludwig. Most of my reasoning is pure conjecture of course, but I do like to think that he really did believe what he was doing was right. In his favour, nothing about Yharnam can be considered “right” or moral/ethical, the city was full of bastards and was insular as fuck, but he had the posterity of an entire city to think about. His rune, and I believe even his sword also implies he was “misled”, which potentially ties into how I feel the entire upper echelon of the Healing Church was just Pure Fuckery, and never divulged much of anything to anybody who didn’t need to know it. Ludwig made do with what he had, and did his best to prolong the life of a city he probably knew was rotting from the inside out.

Least Favorite character: THE LABYRINTH MADMEN. THE ONES IN THE CHALICE DUNGEONS WHO SCREAM AND RUN AT YOU CHRIST EVEN 5 YEARS ON I AM TERRIFIED OF THEM also the one with the twin sickles basically has Maria’s moveset, I’d recognise that slow double overhead any day. 😤😤

5 Favorite ships (canon or non-canon): I got no ships to offer for this game lksdfh. But as an aside, I do have like... one from Dark Souls 2. Y’all can pry Pate/Creighton from my cold dead hands, I LOVE their dynamic so much, and I wish it was fleshed out just a liiiiittle bit more!!

Character I find most attractive: Probably Iosefka and Simon. 👀

Character I would marry: Valtr and Simon. I just like listening to Valtr talk, that man’s got a hell of a voice.

Character I would be best friends with: The messengers. The ones that run the shops in the Dream are particularly sassy, and I love them.

a random thought: I bought a PS4 on sale for Bloodborne, and it sat completely unused and still in the box in my closet until March 24 2015.

An unpopular opinion: I have a few lksdfh. Firstly, Bloodborne isn’t hard. The game is punishing if you play without trying to understand what got you killed, but it’s far from ruthless and unforgiving. Bloodborne (and by extension, the rest of the Souls titles too) doesn’t need an easy mode, because one is already built into the game, and it’s called multiplayer. Easy Mode is ringing the Beckoning Bell. It’s just unfortunate that you require a PS+ sub to access it, but I think that’s on Sony instead of From. Bloodborne doesn’t need a sequel, and shouldn’t get one. FromSoftware is at its best when making a fresh IP, because they’re really good at writing open ended narratives. Expanding on those ideas often breaks the illusion, and also, of course, calls for one ending to become “canon”. I’m personally not very fond of that idea. If a sequel is greenlit, I’m probably going to play the heck out of it anyway, but I don’t think I’d like it as much as I liked the first. This remains true for everything else they’ve done; I don’t like Dark Souls 2 or 3 nearly as much as the first. And Demon’s Souls is ofc very dear to me. I would also have really liked the version of Bloodborne that Miyazaki had in his head, that was had a more central plot and NPC interactions, but apparently Sony stepped in to keep it more in line with Souls Games Hard.

My Canon OTP: Me/Beasthunter Saif.

My Non-canon OTP: Me/Kirkhammer.

Most Badass Character: Valtr. He not only chased a beast all the way back to Yharnam, but when it ate his entire troupe, this madman then goes “fuck it” and decides he’ll return the favour, and he eats the beast back. Like the whole thing.

Most Epic Villain: Going by the sum of their bossfights as opposed to their characters here but big shoutouts to Laurence, Ludwig, Maria and Gehrman. Cleric Beast gets an honourary mention, because he’s still one of my fave bosses, even though he’s a bit of a chump. I just love his design to bits!! Big arm... soft tummy.... antlers... hgHGHGHHGhghghhg so goOD... I think this is also why I really love Manus’ design from Dark Souls 1!!

Pairing I am not a fan of: Me/Losing my 9.5 million blood echoes because I fucked up a jump in the Research Hall in the DLC. 🤣 I wasn’t mad, I just sort of went “hmm 🤔”. I wasn’t even planning on using those echoes anyway, so it was no big deal, but I miss having the big number in the top corner...

Character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another): Why can’t I hug Rom.

Favourite Friendship: Me&the messengers

Character I most identify with: The pig in the sewers lksdjf Just haaangin’ out. Honestly, I have no idea. 🤣

Character I wish I could be: None of them. Nobody except for a small handful of NPCs survive the night. Yharnam isn’t a fun place to be lads...

#answer: artminion #ask meme #not dmc

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halcyonmusings · 4 years

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Ship thing for Astor and Gascoigne :^) ? spare astor/gascogine please?

PRE-RELATIONSHIP

How did they first meet?

After Eileen brought her to Yharnam and started training her, Gascoigne showed up in the middle of a sparring lesson. She almost smacked him with her wooden sword and even though she didn’t hit him, she apologized like, 283290 times.

What was their first impression of each other?

Gascoigne thought she was very kind, a little naive, and was wondering why someone like her would want to be a hunter. He immediately had this feeling of wanting to protect her. Astor thought he was intimidating just from his sheer size, but once they talked for a short while, she thought he was intriguing but also thought he looked lonely.

Did any of their friends or family want them to get together?

Everyone wanted them to get together. Well, minus Eileen, but that was mainly her mentor/motherly instinct of looking out for her.

Who felt romantic feelings first?

They both did, but they both thought it was unrequited. They invented yearning/pining.

Did either of them try to resist their feelings?

Gascoigne did when his beast side was beginning to come out more and more and did his best to avoid Astor, but another part of him needed to see her, be around her. Astor didn’t resist her feelings, but she never tried to tell him about them either.

If you had told one of them that the other would be their soulmate, what would they think?

Well, for sure they’d both be really happy about it.

GENERAL

Who initiated the relationship, and how did it go?

After he talked to Henryk and Djura who both told him to get his head out of his ass and make a move, life’s too short, etc. which.... the timing of it all because his beast form was becoming difficult to control, then Djura left to Old Yharnam, and everything was going downhill, so it was too late for him to say anything.

Did they have an official first date? If so, what was it like?

They weren’t dating, but they spent the first time alone together by hunting some beasts and while Astor watched Gascoigne in action, she got hurt so they spent the rest of that time with him tending to her wounds. He carried her home even though she kept telling him she was fine enough to walk.

What was their first kiss like?

After he escorted her back home, Astor quickly gave him a kiss on the cheek and was about to run back inside her house but he called her back out. When she came back, he gave her a proper kiss on the lips and was like “I prefer these sort of kisses” and she got flustered and ran again lmao

Were they each other’s first anything (kiss, relationship, etc.)?

For her, he was her first kiss, love, (almost) relationship.

What’s their height difference? Age difference?

I... have no idea how old Gascoigne, so I’m assuming the age difference is... pretty high. For the height difference, she’s 5′8″ and he’s like 6′9″ ahahaha... :)

What’s their relationship with each other’s families?

Astor’s parents are dead way before she meets Gascoigne, so... but she’s met his daughters who both love her and who she later adopts.

Who takes the lead in social situations?

Astor. A lot of people get intimidated by Gascoigne’s stature lmao

Who gets jealous easier?

Gascoigne................... He’ll see Alfred talking to her and he’s in the background like >:( One time Alfred kissed the back of Astor’s hand and Gascoigne got so angry he broke a table by slamming his fist on it.

LOVE

Who said “I love you” first?

Astor said it as she held Gascoigne while he was dying :)

What are their primary love languages?

Being in tune to the other’s needs/wants. Knowing each other’s body languages when they’re upset. Being there for each other.

How often do they cuddle/engage in PDA?

They do that thing where their hands brush against each other in passing, but that’s as far as they’ll go otherwise they’ll get teased by the other hunters.

What are their favorite things to do together?

Her reading while he’s resting his head on her lap, sparring.

Who’s better at comforting the other?

Astor! She knows to hold his hand when he’s feeling off, or if he’s become more quiet than usual. They’ll sit together in silence and she’ll wait until he starts to feel like himself.

Who’s more protective?

Gascoigne. He goes out of his way to make sure he never transforms in front of her, even on the night of the hunt when he bumped into her before her fight with the Cleric Beast, he ran off once he felt himself becoming unraveled.

Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?

Physical all the way. Astor was never shown any type of affection while growing up, so once Gascoigne brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she was a goner.

What are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise?

heart skipped a beat by the xx, sweetest kill by broken social scene, pay no mind by beach house

What kind of nicknames do they call each other?

Astor calls him “my love.” Gascoigne calls her “my heart.” 🤧

DOMESTIC LIFE (purely au so let me dream)

If they get married, who proposes?

Gascoigne!!! He places the ring in the music box that he puts on the nightstand for her to find and is giving her hints like “Hmm.. you should play the music box...” and she’s like ??? and he’s like “Yep... would be nice to hear it right now.......” Astor: “Then play it?” Gascoigne: “Yeah but I’d prefer it if you did... :)”

What’s the wedding like? Who attends?

Everyone’s there :) your oc Evie is her maid of honor. Henryk is the ringbearer... manlet rights! I’m kidding he’s the best man most likely. The vault dweller is the one officiating the wedding, thank you. It’s a small ceremony, nothing extravagant.

How many kids do they have, if any? What are they like?

Astor adopts Gascoigne’s two daughters. She tells them she won’t ever replace Viola, and dotes on them as best as she can. They’re both very playful and love to play with Astor and Gascoigne who make time for them whenever they’re able to.

Do they have any pets?

The girls have a bird that they like to let loose in the house. Gascoigne hates the bird because it chirps very loudly when he’s trying to sleep.

Who’s the stricter parent?

Gascoigne. The girls will whine about wanting to stay up a little longer but he’ll be like >:| no until they go 🥺🥺 and Astor will be like “Aww let them stay up for another hour...” He relents but he’s not happy about it.

Who kills the bugs in the house?

They both do, hello. They’ve killed beasts, they will definitely kill bugs no problem.

How do they celebrate holidays?

We’ll say there’s holidays and I’ll say that the girls and Astor decorate the house for every holiday.

Who’s more likely to convince the other to come back to sleep in the morning?

Gascoigne. He’s a big cuddler and is very lazy in the mornings, so when he feels Astor getting up, he’ll reach out to grab her and be like “No... stay in bed a little while longer...” and she’ll be like “I have to make breakfast for the girls” but he’ll crawl over to her to bury his face on her lap and be like “Just for a few minutes, come on.” And she’ll give up and go back to bed. It works every single time.

Who’s the better cook?

Gascoigne. He has two kids okay, he had to learn how to be good at cooking.

#mooonbride #asks #x: sweet blood #thank you for this :)

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