My First Attempt at really writing for an audience. Of course I don't own Bloodborne or From Software's IP. Props to those who do though.

The Hunter did not remember where he was or how he had stood from the table where he awoke. From the first step off the table, a clumsy attempt to walk resulted in an odd drunken stumble ending in a sharp pain as the needle was ripped from his forearm. The remainder of the "Yarnham blood" fell to the floor, coating the grime on the floor. The Hunter, not bothering to try to get off the floor, gazed at the pool near his person."I want it. I want it. so warm, welcoming, Why.." As he reached for the crimson pool, the wood of the floor started to become exceedingly apparent.

At first the world in it's entirety seemed dull, shrouded, and cold. Soon things began to spring forth from the blood. The grain of the dusty floor, and it's splinters in the Hunters face, the cold air hanging still in the room, the stench of rot and molding books on the ground, and the pain of glass pressing into his hands. He stood, and carefully walked to the doorway. As he moved, a warmth began to creep from the feet up. He suddenly felt his pulse in his ears, and heard the sound of his heels clicking against the floor. He felt the wall and the smooth wooden shelves, ignoring the pain in his head and the words echoing in his mind. "Hunter" "Blood" "Power" "Kill beasts" "Hunt". He fell again, and stumbled down the corridor into a sterile room. He looks to his right, then his left, then ahead where a beastly form loomed over a pile of viscera. It looks back, and the hunter is silenced, his body broken and his blood sprayed on the walls. There is the sight of small skeletal creatures, little malformed skulls and faces, hands grasping at his remains. The corpse is moving. No, the Hunter still hears and feels, his mind is being pulled into an ether.

There is the smell of fire, and cold dew is soaking into his clothes. He stands for a moment, unaware of the pair of eyes fixed on him. He walks, twitching and flexing, making sure that all his muscles and bones are where they should be. The cobblestones are soft underfoot, and the flowers seem to glow. The Hunter thinks "I am dreaming". There is a doll sitting against a wall of a small shop, it's porcelain face is blank, mesmerizing. He stares, small wrists. No.. Ball joints look so fragile they might fall off under their own weight. The dress is clean, as if the terrain never even acknowledged the doll existed. Though her eyes worried him. They were as if they were plucked from a human, and they conveyed emotion. Thoroughly unnerved, the Hunter proceeded to walk up the stairs over the malformed abominations. He glances down at the steps he fell over. A pistol and cane sat at the base where he fell. The pistol loaded, and the cane collapsing into a chain of razor blades before condensing into a fine blade. With a sigh and a shake of the cape, he intones with the voice in his head. "I am a hunter, I will hunt".

/

She is incapable of movement, though she still perceives. The smell of old paper and morning dew is drifting in the air, she sees the stone pathway in her vision, the flowers and grass by the tombstones. Her hands feel the soft fabric, and a downwards pressure tells the recently awoken woman that she is sitting, in complete paralysis. She remembers the last time she was sentient. She was standing among dozens of men, branding steel and fire and quicksilver. They spoke of her master, now old and full of sleep in his chair. "The church has barred their doors to the people, they have forsaken our city" says one. "It is overrun with the plague, even the beasts hunt each other without knowing what they attack", "my uncle shot his wife and infant in his rage, he set his home on fire". They are afraid, and even in the safety of the dream, they know the hunt is over, and they too must become one with the nightmare. They take their leave, one or two leaving together in macabre company. They never return, and as the days pass, her strength dwindles with the number left alive in the city. The hunt.

It then dawns on her that she has awoken for the first time in years, decades even, and then, the second realization.

"I am not alone". Gehrman. A new hunter. Serve. A heat rises in her chest, a smile is held dormant within the cold paralysis. This hunter standing by the workshop has yet to be granted insight. This one is different. The garb is all wrong, more a highwayman than a hunter. panic seizes the doll. Her alabaster skin is heating up with the knowledge that this hunter will be slaughtered wearing this scant uniform. She sees the axes fall into his skin, the bullets tear flesh from the body, the horror as beasts and plagued men rend and flay him from dream to dream. He returns each time with a hollow expression, a confused air as he awakens from agony among cool morning dew and warm fire from the hearth. Tears well in the eyes of the doll, she wishes that for a fleeting moment the Hunter would awaken from the nightmare upon her lap, where she could console his weary mind.

Gehrman wheels past her, "you will move soon, then you may be of use". She rehearses her verse to the newcomer, her first in an eternity. "Hello good hunter, I am a doll".

So I never tried to write a narrative, and I never considered letting people see what I did write. Yay or nay to continuing the story? Other chapters will be (considerably) longer. Thank you.