Hey guys, long time no see. I guess you must be a bit irked about me rewriting the story, huh? Sorry about that, I just moved to Texas, all the way from Virginia mind you, and things just slipped away. But, now that I've started school and gotten back into the grove of things, I think I'm ready to make a fresh start of this. Hopefully, you'll all appreciate this much more than my original, as I'm aware there were glaring issues with it. I intend to make none of those mistakes, and I hope to maintain a more constant update schedule. So without any delay, I present the newer version of "Hunters & Huntsmen"

Funny how I kept the same title right? Oh, and I couldn't respond to this as it was sent by a guest, but Simon's bowblade is the bomb, even though my love lies with the Rakuyo.

And P.S. I mentioned this in my last story, but watch Vaatividya, he does really good lore videos for the SoulsBorne series.

The Hunter sits at the edge of the beach, his bare feet soaking in the icy water. The rain bears down on him, plastering his hair to his face in damp rattails. He moves his hand to his face, brushing a curtain of white hair over his left eye. His uncovered eye continues to stare upwards, fixated on the moonless sky. It was rather strange, he could've sworn he'd seen the moon there, shattered, but still floating above the earth. Though, with the death of the Orphan, the sky had shifted to an empty, grey canvas.

His attention shifts to his weapon, an old, worn down cane. Blood still dripped from the hilt, running down the nicked blade and soaking into the already moistened sand. The foul scent, present in the blood of all Kin, had long since faded, leeched away by the smell of the sea.

He lifts the flap of his coat pocket and reaches in. His fingers run along the chain clipped to his coat, stopping as it brushes against the rounded edge of his watch. He grips the watch and removes it from his pocket. The light glints off of the surface as he turns it over in his hand. The golden shell was clean, sheltered from any form of stain or damage by the lining of the Hunter's pocket. Its spotless surface had obviously been cared for, almost obsessively.

His finger pushes down on the latch release, unlocking the cover and allowing it to open. A small picture had been pressed into the inside of the lid, securely adhered to the metal itself. A finger traces along the edge, just outlining the shape of the girl's face. She was young, maybe around four years his junior, with curly brown hair and light brown skin. He recognized himself standing beside her, his white hair parted neatly at the side, leaving the bangs to frame his face. He could see the similarities between them, from the angular shape of their faces to the sharp blue eyes that seemed to stare through you. They could be cousins, or siblings, if only through one common parent.

Questions stretch his mind, pressing against his skull in an attempt to break free. Who was she? And where was she? The questions would appear out of the blue, forcing him to strain to find an answer. He'd sort through the memories that filled his head, sifting through the memories of those he'd slaughtered in search of one he knew to be his own.

"Please," The girl begs, "Just on song."

"No," The boy answers, his grip tightens on the pen, scribbling across the page. "I have work to do, and you need to go to bed."

"Come on," She pleads, "one song isn't going to kill you, and you've got all day tomorrow to get that piece written down."

"I need all day tomorrow," He states, "Just like I needed all day today."

The girl let's go and falls to the ground. He can feel her resentful glare burning into the side of his head. He knew she wasn't going to let this go; she'd badger him until the sun came up if she could.

"Dammit," His hand recoils as quickly as possible to minimize the mistake. Shit, the note was in the wrong place. Maybe he could...dammit, every note on this page was a line too high, he'd have to do the whole thing over.

"One song," He says, irritation lacing his voice. He stands from his desk, shutting his eyes and massaging them. "One song, then you go to bed."

The girl stands, giving a wide smile. His face softens as he looks down at her, quickly forgetting how irritating she had been for the past hour. Not that he could stay mad, not when she put on a smile like that. He reaches down and tousles her hair, pulling her bangs forward and over her left eye.

"Stop!" She demands, shaking her head and pulling away. "I hate it when you do that."

"And I hate being bothered when I'm busy." He retorts, "But life is made of small concessions."

He walks past her, stopping to push the door open. A cool breeze blows through as the space in the doorway widens. He looks over his shoulder; the girl stands there, arms behind her back as she sways side to side.

"Come on," He encourages.

The two enter the hallway, treading carefully in across the poorly lit floor.

"Hey!"

The girl squeaks as she trips on a bulge in the carpet. She grabs onto the boy's arm, digging her nails into his bare flesh. He catches her, biting the inside of his cheek to remain quiet.

"You alright?" He asks, looking her over. "I don't know why the staff won't mount any sconces here, someone's going to break their neck getting a drink of water."

"I'm fine," She says, standing up straight. He knew she was lying, but he couldn't deny the swell of pride he felt. She was a tough one, maybe she would be okay if he left.

"Then let's go."

The two continue, eyes focused on the ground for anything else they could trip on. Good timing, considering the distraction it provided from the hunting trophies mounted on the wall. Already angled to stare with lifeless eyes at whomever walked through the hall, the little bit of light the windows let in only served to make it even more haunting.

He feels her arms tighten around his as she steps closer, leaning her head against him. He smiles. He didn't like it when she was scared, but the older she got, the less he needed to be the protective older brother. He missed that. He'd take any opportunity he'd get to experience that feeling again.

"You're not scared, are you?" He taunts, looking down to the girl. She shakes her head.

"I'm not scared" She lies, "I'm not scared of anything."

He chuckles

"Then I'm sure you can run up ahead and get the door to the recreational room."

Her grip around his arm tightens.

The pair reach the end of the hall, still conjoined at the arm as they push the door open and step inside. The large windows were effective in allowing the midnight moon to illuminate each even the most remote areas of the room. It was an impressive sight; Several leather sofas had been arranged around the grand piano at the far end of the room, with several sets of tables and chairs placed in such a way that viewing whomever was playing would be easy.

Freeing himself from his sister's grip, the boy walks up to the piano. He pulls the bench out from under it and sits, the girl follows in suit. His fingers work their way under the cover, lifting it back to reveal an array of black and white keys. He limbers up, pushing each finger down until he feels a satisfying pop at the base of the digit.

"What would you like me to play?" He asks, practicing scales as the girl watches beside him. She mirrors his movements, running her hand over each key as he moves up and down the board.

"It can be anything," He adds , "Anything at all."

"Even one of mom's songs?"

The music stops.

"One of Mom's songs?" He repeats. How long had it been since she died? Six years? Six years since Mom had stopped singing, six years since they ended up on their own.

"I didn't think you remembered those songs," He says, swallowing the lump in his throat. He couldn't get choked up now, not in front of her. He looks down at the piano's keys, his blue eyes focusing on each nick and scratch on the painted sugar pine.

"I don't quite remember it,' She clarifies, "but I remember her. It's odd, but whenever I think of her, there's this hum that i keep hearing."

She hums gently, closing her eyes and swaying side to side as she recreates the tune. The boy lets out a low laugh, wiping away the tears that had formed in the corners of his eyes.

"That was your favorite," He says, gently pressing down on several keys. The chord echoes in the room, bouncing around the walls and vibrating against their ears. He plays another one, adding to the tune. He begins the song. It starts out rough; constrained and choppy. Soon though, it smooths out, shifting into a gentle and consistent tempo. His eyes close as he eases into the music. His arms relax, becoming looser, almost rubber like as his body sways from side to side, moving with the rhythm of the music. One, two and three and four. One, two and three, four. One, two and three and four. One, two, three, four.

He stops, holding down the final chord until the sound dies out entirely, leaving them alone in the dark room. His chest tightens as he sucks in several breaths. Dammit, he'd held his breath again. He'd need to kick that habit, and soon if he was going to start playing for a crowd.

"Dammit, boy." The Instructor would reprimand, swatting at his sides. "You need to breathe, there's no coin to be earned if you fall asleep during a performance. Again."

He laughs, remembering how often his instructor had drilled that lesson into his head, and yet here he was again; struggling to catch his breath.

He looks to his side. His sister was fast asleep, her head resting against his side as she snored. God she was loud, was he like this when he slept too?

"Come on little one," He says softly, carefully picking the girl up. She shifts, rearranging her arms in a more comfortable position, but remained asleep nonetheless.

"Let's get you to bed."

The Hunter sits upright gasping for air as his chest constricts.. His body straightens as his arms extend, his hands grasping at the empty space around him.

Dammit

His stomach knots as he tries to catch his breath, twisting and churning as clouds of steam rise from his mouth with each shallow breath.

Why? Why is that all I ever see?

He buries his head in his hands, sending the hot puffs of air into his face. He didn't care. All he wanted was an end. An end to this, the nightmare, the killing. He just wanted it to end.

He must've been sitting there for ages before the tugging on his sleeve became apparent. He lifts his and looks to his left. A messenger sat by his side, its small hands holding onto his sleeve.

"Is there something you need?" His voice falters as he draws in a shaky breath. The creature releases his sleeve and cocks its head, standing idle as it stares up at him. Odd, could it tell he was distress?

"I'm fine," He says, both to himself and the Messenger. It nods and points behind itself, its arm was shaking. Perhaps as a way to convey urgency.

"What is it?" The Hunter asks, turning around and sitting on his knees to look past the small creature. It's finger points past the body of Kos, towards the lamp.

"I really wish you things could speak," He groans, reaching for his boots. He tugs them onto his still wet feet. The leather sticks and pulls against the damp flesh. With a hard pull, he yanks them onto his feet. He laces the boots and stands.

"I suppose the Old Man want's me to pay a visit." He remarks, tensing at the thought. He'd have to go back to the dream sooner or later, he knew that much. The echos of Kos' child would drive him mad if he were to carry them for too long. Still, he didn't want to talk to "Him". He could only guess at what he wanted, and no possible outcome seemed appealing. Even so, blood echos or not, he would have to visit the dream sooner or later, and he'd prefer to visit of his own accord, rather than being taken by force.

Could they do that, though? He had woken up inside the dream on a few occasions rather than at the lamps he had previously lit, though both times he had suffered a particularly violent demise; blood everywhere, his severed arm flung over the side of the bridge. Come to think of it, he had been so thoroughly eviscerated in both instances, he doubted whether or not the dream could revive him properly.

No, that wouldn't happen.

Plucking his cap from the handle of his cane, he tugs it on, pressing a curtain of white hair into his face.

Though I suppose anything is possible.

He turns, making his way to the lamp. He feet sink in the moist sand as he passes Kos' cadaver. Pity pulls at his chest as he averts his gaze. She wasn't a malevolent creature as most of her ilk, merely a victim of the Byrgenwerth scholar's lust for knowledge.

Deplorable.

The Hunter stops in front of the lamp, dropping to his knees for a closer look at the bulb.

"Odd," He mumbles. The bulb was still unlit, why? Lighting the lamps had become almost habitual; a sort of ritual to cleanse away the danger surrounding him, and yet here it was, unlit and unused. The fight against Kos' offspring was a long one, driving him close to the point of passing out near its close, but surely that wouldn't override the deeply set habits he had developed over the course of The Hunt, would it?

He shakes his head. It doesn't matter, he was lighting it now. He extends his arm, pressing his thumb and index finger together, as though he were holding a match. His strikes the "match" with his thumb, eliciting an odd 'humm' from the lamp as the bulb illuminates. The small flame grows, creating a circle of light around the lamp. The air grew warmer, as though it were burning away the stench of death and blood with it's cleansing luminescence.

Kneeling in front of the lamp, the Hunter extends his left arm, holding it above the bulb. Smoke and light rise around him as the coldness begins to encroach upon him. He braces himself for the unpleasant sensation of travel as a white light begins to envelop him. He takes a calming breath as the darkness of sleep envelops him.

The inky blackness of sleep gives way to the a red stained ceiling. The Hunter sits upright, gagging as a foul scent reaches into his throat. The stench was familiar; a mix of rotted flesh and blood. Where was he? This wasn't the dream, far from it in fact. Water drains from his sleeves as he stands, hitting the ground as though there were a lake below him. He looks to his feet, spying at least half of the foul stench currently assaulting him. He had awoken ankle deep in a pool of blood.

He looks to his right; the piles of bodies remained, with both crimson tinged skeletons and skinless cadavers making up most of the mounds' mass. Some of the bodies still writhe in pain as the crushing weight squeezes the blood from their veins. He remembers first entering this chamber, finding the source of the bloody river that ran through the nightmare, as well as the beast that had created it.

The Hunter turns away, coughing as the scent reaches into his throat once again. Blood splashes around his ankles as he walks towards the stairs. A shadow catches his eye; a large lump, misshapen and unmoving.

Ludwig.

The shaft of an arrow sticks out from his eye, a clean shot to the brain. He steps closer, staring down at the severed head with a mix of pity and anger. He was a twisted shadow of the Hunter he once was, warped by the blood and the nightmare.

No one deserved such a fate.

And yet he and his Hunters were the reason for the nightmare's existence, the reason for the curse the Hunters now suffered. He was a beast, through and through.

"Good Hunter of the Church," A voice calls out, hoarse and sickly as its owner struggles to breathe. The Hunter stands, swinging his arm around and aiming his blunderbuss towards the stairs behind him. The scent of blood still clouds the air, no way of telling if it's man or beast, no way of knowing whether it was friend or foe.

"Have you seen the light?" The voice asks. The light? What light could he be talking about? Curious, the Hunter takes a cautious step forward. His feet skim the surface of the bloody pool with each step, carefully touching down so as to not make a splash. He stretches his thumb to the top of his blunderbuss, slowly hooking a finger inside the hammer and pulling it back.

Moving closer to the small staircase, the Hunter stops as the voice's owner comes into view. Ludwig's head lay on it's side in the corner, mouth open as he sucks in shallow breaths. His milky eye twitches wildly, looking for something, for someone. It lands on the Hunter, shaking as it looks him over.

"I'm not-"

"Are my Church Hunters the honorable Spartans I hoped they would be?"

The Hunter closes his mouth, sucking on his lips as he struggles to summon the words. He should tell him. He deserved to know that the Church had failed, that his Hunters had fallen into madness. Yet, what purpose would that serve? What purpose would it serve to tell a man that his life's work was meaningless?

Dammit

"Yes," He finally answers

"Ah, good..." Ludwig sighs, the hint of a smile forming at the corners of his stretched lips. "That is a relief, to know I did not suffer such denigration for nothing." His words were slower, more drawn out than before.

"Thank you kindly. Now I may sleep in peace." He pauses, eyes closing as he slips away. "Even in this darkest of nights, I see...the moonlight..."

The muscles in his face relax as they slacken His lip fall to the ground, practically hanging off of the bone as he begins to snore.

Staring down at the severed head, the Hunter sneers. A glob of saliva flies from his mouth and lands on the beast's horse like snout. Liars and murderers, all of them. Risking others to protect their honor, and disposing of those who got to close to the truth. He should have told him the truth, he deserved to know that he had failed in upholding the Church's "dignity".

"Bastard,"

The glint of the arrow catches his eye once more. He tilts his head, perhaps the tip was still attached. He kneels down, wrapping his fingers around the shaft of the arrow and pulling. The large head moves with it, holding onto the arrow tightly; it was lodged rather deep, Simon must've shot him point blank.

With his other hand curled around the metal shaft and his left foot planted firmly on Ludwig's snout, he pulls once more. With a sickening squelch, the arrow comes free, the quicksilver head still attached. He removes the tip, storing the bullet in his pocket and tossing the headless shaft aside.

At least in death, these Hunters were still helpful.

The Hunter moves towards the stairs, hands resting comfortably in his pockets. He stops at the lantern. Something was wrong, he was here for a reason was he not? There had to be something for him to do, and yet nothing had come to mind.

Brinnng

He cocks his head at the familiar sound. A bell? A beckoning bell? No, the pitch was far too low, too low to even be that of its sinister counterpart.

Brinnng

His hand shakes as his fingers curl into a fist. It was him, the one who had been impeding his efforts in the Hamlet. The one who had murdered Simon. The Church's damned assassin.

Brinnng

He walks towards the stairway, holding his arm out to his side. The ground bubbles and froths as a thin blade rises, carried by the messenger's small arms. The Hunter grips his Rakuyo with both hands and pulls, separating the saber from the dagger mounted on its pommel. He climbs the stairs, listening for the ring of the bell as he searches for the Assassin's phantom.

Brinnng

The ringing grows louder and more focused as the Hunter turns the corner. He stops, gazing down the darkened hallway. The walls were lined with cell doors; some opened, and some still closed. No longer a low hum surrounding him, the Hunter could now hear the bell's chime echoing from down within the Assassin's cell. He walks closer, each step echoing through the corridor.

Brinnng

A red tinted mist passes over the floor, spinning slowly as the last ring fades out. The assassin rises from the portal, his face hidden behind the beast hide cowl and his hand clenched tightly around the monstrous mace. The Hunter dashes forward, swinging his blade upwards. The sweet scent of fresh blood hits his nose as the warm fluid sprays from the wound, coating the wall and ceiling. The Assassin's feet shift and the Hunter steps back. The mace barely misses him as it crashes into the floor, cracking the stone tile.

Legs bent, he kicks back farther. His feet slide against the slick tiles as the distance between him and the assassin increases. His eyes narrow, searching for a weakness within his opponent. There wasn't much to use; his attire hadn't changed since their encounter on the bridge. The thick hide of his cowl meant that any chance of decapitation would be nigh impossible, though a well timed stab would sever his jugular if he could get in close enough. Strikes to his back would be useless, though the shock may stagger him long enough to deal some internal damage.

The Hunter shakes his head; he needed to focus. No matter what strategy he could come up with, it would mean nothing if he let his opponent transform his weapon. The tight confines of the corridor would make avoiding his opponent's attack practically impossible.

Dashing forward, the Hunter slashes downward. The edge of his blade collides with the fins of the mace, sending the Rakuyo sliding off to the left. The Hunter leans to the side, swinging his blade up and around. Sparks fly as it strikes the mace once more, bouncing off with a grating 'clang'. Needles poke each nerve in the Hunter's arm as the shock travels up to his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he continues his attack. Blood coats the walls as the two Hunters clash. Flesh is hacked and healed with each attack, leaving only shredded cloth hanging from their bloodied frames.

The Hunter ducks under a swing, his heart jumping into his throat as the head of the mace sails over him. He thrusts the blade forward, driving the steel deep into the Assassin's abdomen. Tightening his grip, the Hunter twists the blade and wrenches it to the side. He steps around his opponent, coating himself in the massive wave of blood spraying from the fresh wound. This was it, this was the end.

The dagger spins in the hand, carried by his fingers as his arm snakes around the Assassin's throat. He pulls his arm back, bringing the tip of the blade towards his opponent's carotid artery. Finally, one quick push and it would be over.

Fingers wrap around the Hunter's fist, catching it pulling the blade away. He resists, struggling to pull his arms back from his opponent's iron grip. The pressure around his hand increases, sending a wave of pain up his arm. He grits his teeth. He won't let him go. He won't let him win.

In the edge of his sight, the Assassin raises his mace, aiming the head downwards towards his stomach. His blood runs cold as the mace is plunged downward. With a sickening crack, the Hunter steps to the side and spins, shattering his wrist and freeing it from the Assassins grip.

Blood spray's from the Assassin's back, accompanied by a low pitched shriek. The head of the mace emerges; longer, and with a far more sinister appearance than it originally had. Spikes of bloodstone adorn the large ball at the end of the weapon's lengthened shaft. It shifts upward, carried by its wielder's weight as he falls to his knees. He heaves, regurgitating bright red blood onto the stone tiles. The Assassin coughs and raises his hand, reaching towards his cell. His arm smacks against the ground as his body goes limp.

"Dammit," The Hunter mutters, clutching his hand. Red hot pain burns through the broken bones, setting his nerves on fire. He inhales through his nose, loudly sucking in air as he holds his mouth shut. He releases his hand and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out something, a small glass vial. A dark red liquid swirls around the container, splashing behind a yellowed label.

"Ministration Blood" It reads

Biting down on the cork, the hunter pulls the top of with an audible 'pop, revealing one end of the needle. He breathes in, still hesitant despite his experience with the process. He knew how it worked, how the needle would puncture his vein with one end, while the other end would puncture the seal on the vial. He'd prefer not to do it this way, but as far as he knew, he couldn't ingest the blood orally.

He pushes the needle into his upper thigh. With a wet hiss, the contents empty from the vial and into his bloodstream. His skin pulls tight as the remaining cuts from his fight close, knit back together by regenerated flesh. His hand spasms, shaking and twitching as the bones shift back into place and conjoin. He grits his teeth, shutting his eyes as he struggles to withhold his outburst. It hurt like hell, even now, but screaming would only make it worse.

Feeling the pain subside, the Hunter opens his eyes and looks at his hand. He opens and closes his fist, working the stiffness from his fingers.

"All better"

Wiping the blood from his face with his newly healed hand, the Hunter turns to the Assassin's phantom. The body was gone, transported back to the cell of the bell's owner. At his feet lay the two pieces of the Rakuyo dropped and forgotten in his haste. He kneels and picks up the saber, turning it over in his hand and inspecting the blade. It wasn't knicked, but it could use a good sharpening after that fight. Returning the weapon to its singular form, the Hunter enters the narrow corridor leading down to the Assassin's cell. He takes each step with caution, his eyes narrowed as they dart back and forth, searching for any trap that may have been set.

Brinnng

The bell grows louder, echoing through the corridor. He shakes his head; the sound was grating, but letting it distract him was a misstep one couldn't afford to take. He stops, standing before the thick, wooden door. He lowers his head, taking in a deep breath. Whatever was beyond this door, he had to be ready. He shuts his eyes and inhales once more.

"Do you hear this?" A voice asks from behind the door, accompanied by yet another chime of the bell.

"Fear the bell's toll." he warns, "For only death awaits prying eyes, and the Church assassins are never far behind."

The voice breaks into a sinister cackle, bouncing off of the walls and scraping against the Hunter's eardrums. He sneers; this man needed to die.

Reaching under his coat, he unhooks the key ring from his belt. The numerous keys jingle as he brings them closer to his eyes. Dozens of keys hang from the ring, shaking as the Hunter picks through them. He grips one; a slim iron key, rusted with age. Two teeth protrude from the pin, with the upper tooth extending to the opposite side. He drops the ring, allowing it to hang from the key as he inserts it into the lock and turns it. With a mechanical crank, the door parts from the frame.

"Well, well, look who's here."

The Church Assassin sits in the back of the cell, arm resting on his raised knee. The splintered remains of multiple beds surround him. His index finger curls inward, letting the silver bell dangle from his hand. With a slight jerk, the bell rings once more.

"Welcome to my quarters," The Assassin greets. He makes a gesture, as though he were inviting the Hunter to take a seat.

"I've never entertained a guest before." He remarks, continuing to ring his bell. The Hunter enters the room, approaching the Assassin. His grip on the Rakuyo tightens.

"Are you going to kill me?" The Assassin asks. The Hunter remains quiet. "After all you've done, kill me, as if to right your wrongs?" He laughs again, a far more subdued chuckle than before, but a laugh nonetheless. The Hunter pulls his arm back, aiming the tip of the Rakuyo down towards the Assassin's head. He stabs downward.

The Hunter exits the corridor of cells, descending the steps to the lamp. Blood drips from his Rakuyo, leaving a spotty trailer of dark red behind him. He inhales. He holds the air in his lungs for a moment before releasing it, allowing his posture to relax. Messengers rise from the lamp as he steps closer, reaching up towards the luminescent bulb. He takes a knee, reaching his hand out over the bulb as if he were to grab it. The ground beneath him begins to glow; ashes rise with the beams of light as his eyes grow heavy. He leans forward, allowing the sweet embrace of sleep to take him.