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A second attempt at this story. Unlike my last attempt, this iteration will be by invitation only in order to hopefully avoid issues with player retention.

This RP takes place about five years after the events of the game, at least initially in Yharnam, and is going to allow for the freedom to explore the world of Bloodborne and an amalgamation of theories I have collected and come up with on my own. Things are going to get grotesque, dark, violent and overwhelming for the characters as they are pitted against the scourge of beasts, monsters from other worlds and others of their own.
It is a Night of the Hunt unlike any before it, and terrible things are going to happen. Survival is... unlikely. Try to stay alive, or at least kill some beasts before you die.


Jordan, Nabi, Madara and Jaelnec – Traversing and leaving Bor Manor, Borstown

Throughout the business retrieving the sole survivor out of all of Baroness Bor's guests Jaelnec said nothing and did very little aside from just being present, watching and listening while shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. This was how he was used to acting and how Freagon demanded he behaved most of the time – to let more experienced and competent people handle important business and concentrate on learning through observation – but he was unsure whether these people expected more from him.
Truthfully, he wanted to do more. Jaelnec wanted to be more than just a passenger riding along for someone else's adventure, more than someone that just watched others brave mortal danger, perform heroics, and earning gratitude and admiration. How many times had he dreamed of himself in his master's place; vanquishing horrifying monsters and terrible evils with ease, saving would-be victims from mortal danger, all without even a hint of fear or hesitation?
But in the end he was still just a page; according to Freagon, Jaelnec was not ready for more than that. Jordan had been made a squire by his master and had already distinguished himself in the battle against the wraiths and ghouls. He did not know anything about the two women, but they both seemed quite comfortable taking more active roles in proceedings as well.
Out of everyone there, the one Jaelnec thought was closest to his own pathetic place in the world was probably this Tedwyn-fellow, obviously just pretending to be a fighter and a hero, only to barricade himself in a room and hide while crying impotently when danger presented itself. Was Jaelnec not the same, walking around with a sword on his hip like a warrior, only to stay behind and let everyone else face the danger while he cowered in safety?
He was disgusted with his own weakness; though he had sparred with his master daily for fifteen years, he still could not last more than a handful of seconds against him before being beaten to the ground. At this rate he would never be ready to be named Freagon's squire.

Jaelnec made sure to return the truncheons he had been carrying around uselessly as their half of the party made it through the armory of Bor Manor on their way outside, which delayed him a second or two in catching up with Jordan, Nabi, Madara and Tedwyn. He arrived as Jordan finished introducing himself and was starting to report the whereabouts of Lady Bor.
Outside, along the cobbled path serving as the approach to Bor Manor, they were met by the sight of what was left of the staff of Bor Manor. The three of them they had seen on their way in: the muscular man who had rung the bell and spoken to Madara earlier, but who had not offered his own name, only named everyone else; the well-groomed man called Wade; and the rotund woman in an apron named Kylie. Those three were crowding around a fourth man, who they might surmise was most likely the one called Quintin.
Quintin stood taller than the people around him, looking to be nearly a full two meters tall, with long legs and athletic physique, and looked like he was probably stronger than anyone else working in Bor Manor. He was clad in a greenish brown hooded cloak, with the hood currently being swept back, which seemed big enough for it to easily wrap around his entire body while still allowing him enough room to move. He as clad in a light suit of brown brigandine as well as armored boots, gauntlets and greaves and carried a dull-gray great helm tucked under his right arm. His left hand clutched a war bow, matched with a quiver of arrows on his right hip, and he had a slender longsword sheathed on his left hip along with what appeared to be at least three different daggers.
He looked to be in his late forties, with shortish, messy hair that was half-brown and half-gray, and struck an imposing figure. Unlike pretty much every other fighter they had met in Borstown, unless you counted the baroness herself, Quintin appeared to be completely unharmed despite the tribulations he had been through... which suggested that the dark-red splotches on the hem of his cloak, his gauntlets and the chest of his armor was not his blood.
The three others seemed overjoyed that their fourth had returned, but Quintin seemed a little uncomfortable with all the attention. He instantly switched his focus to Jordan and his half of the party as soon as they appeared in the doorway and appeared to listen intently as Jordan spoke, staring at him with sharp brown eyes.
“Quintin,” he introduced himself, speaking quickly and clearly. “The bandits took our healer to an abandoned farm about an hour's walk north of here, on the other side of the forest. In addition to the sixteen survivors from the raid on Borstown, I counted at least another ten. They didn't seem in a hurry to leave and had several patrols in the area, but it's clearly not somewhere they've stayed for long either. They have horses; if they leave, we probably won't be able to catch them.”
Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, and Yanin – Upstairs Guest Bedroom, Bor Manor, Borstown

Vela listened to Yanin and – going into significantly more detail – Irah's report of the situation without opening her eyes, her body-language speaking of regret and relief in equal measure. It might be easy for Irah and Lhirin to forget with how they were mainly used to dealing with other deigan, who were as ageless as themselves, or humans, among which even the ancient-looking were rarely as old as them, but penin lived quite long lives. For a penin to seem as old as the baroness did, chances were that she was nearly three hundred years old, which would make her far older than either of them. Given the stories they might very well be familiar with since they were here now she had spent at least a human lifetime as an adventurer with the Melody of Freedom. As much as the two deigans had a wealth of experience that was already beyond what was achievable for most humans, old Vela Bor had likely seen more than both of them combined.

“Assistance will not be necessary,” Caleb supplied when Irah reported on his intention to return to the Neverrealm and the probable willingness for one of them to kill him to send him on his way. “I can break my tether to this vessel by my own will... though I suppose I can let you slay me, if you worry that I will try to trick you. So you know for certain that I am gone.”

Only once Irah finished the last part of her did the penin open her eyes, her posture straightened and the heavy weariness that had assailed her was pushed back through sheer force of will.
“The scout, as you say, returned just a few minutes ago,” she told them, her demeanor abruptly turning focused and disciplined. “I'm glad that you're already rarin' to go get Bren, 'cause I was going to ask for your help. I'll be going myself, along with at least two of my hired hands. We already know where they took him.”
“The mages might need rest first,” Freagon spoke up from his place by the bed, seemingly much more attentive now than he had been throughout their conversation with the thalk, “but the boy and I are ready to go. Probably Sir Yanin and his boy, too.”
Vela nodded her head, a bit curious about just what had happened in the short time since this group had been introduced to each other. Irah and Lhirin were the only ones that had actually introduced themselves to her yet, so she was able to deduce that the “Lhirin” Irah mentioned before was likely the abbreviated version of Lhirinthyl, and the old knight's reference to Sir Yanin as someone other than himself suggested that it was likely the human swordsman... which meant that Irah had prompted those two to speak, but not this nightwalker. She wondered why.
“You will be rewarded for this, too, of course, and there is more to discuss... though I think it would be better to save it for when everyone is present. Time is of the essence, and Quintin probably has more answers for you than I do. For now, I'd like all of us to assemble in front of the manor.” She shot a sidelong glance at the fallen angel. “You, too, Caleb. Even if we couldn't use all the help we could get, I'm not cruel enough to stop you from finishing what Feevesha gave her life to do.”
Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, and Yanin – Upstairs Guest Bedroom, Bor Manor, Borstown

After Irah's rather lengthy speech, Caleb spent a moment simply staring at her before replying: “You presume much, Deo'irah,” he said bluntly, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “What I can agree with is that actions matter. I said I would help with the bandits in Feevesha's honor, and that is as far as I will go for pretty words.”

To Yanin's question of whether the thalk preferred to live in exile, Caleb shrugged answered: “It is how it is; I cannot currently change my situation. I am shunned in the divine realms, and I am feared and hated in the Corerealm. Eternity lies before me, things will inevitably change, but I can only exist in the present.”

Ultimately the topic turned to more current concerns as Yanin determined that they would soon have to deal with the baroness and asked Irah to do the talking. Irah, in turn, inquired as to whether their approach should be based on diplomacy or subterfuge, with the implied practical choice being whether to to be upfront about Caleb's nature or to try to hide it.
Though he did not directly say it, the Knight of the Glades' arguments were clearly in favor of honesty.
Freagon, whose gaze had slowly drifted to the window next to him which he had spent most of the conversation staring out of in silence, finally turned his attention back to the room. “'Death before dishonor, dishonor before disloyalty,'” he grumbled, quoting two lines of the code of the Knighthood of the Will. “We currently work for Bor; the honorable and loyal thing to do would be telling the truth.”
Caleb nodded in agreement over in his corner. “I could disguise myself as long as I stand still, but as soon as I move I will not have the energy to do so; she would discover my nature sooner or later. If she takes offense, simply kill me.”

Regardless of whether there was more to be said or done among themselves, there was no time; barely had the divine's True Words come over his lips before the diminutive form of the penin woman they had met outside the manor stepped into the doorway. She was still wielding her crossbow with a bolt loaded and ready to be loosed in an instant, the weapon raised and her fingers on the trigger lever.
She did not aim the weapon at anyone in particular, however, but seemed to merely hold it in her hands as her eyes instantly darted to the fallen angel in the corner, upon which her shoulders seemed to immediately sag. She let her gaze sweep over the room left to right quickly, taking in the scene before her and everyone's demeanor, until looking at Freagon's relaxed stance, bored expression, sheathed sword and unequipped helmet.
The crossbow dropped as her entire posture shifted from wary and combat-ready to exhausted and disheartened in a second. “G'vaas,” she muttered under her breath. She looked at the thalk again, though she seemed to have aged several decades in the couple of seconds that had passed since seeing him the first time. “I presume you're Caleb.”
Caleb recoiled slightly, clearly surprised to hear those words. “You know of me?”
“Feevesha told me about you,” the woman explained with a slight nod of her head, though she moved as though she barely had the energy to do even that. “Foolish girl... I warned her about piaan.”
She closed her eyes in resignation and asked: “Is it over?”
Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, and Yanin – Upstairs Guest Bedroom, Bor Manor, Borstown

“Do you, by any chance, have at least an inkling what the divines or mundane slaves were kept for, or any other names that might have been mentioned?”
Caleb took a moment to quietly contemplate Yanin's question. “I never actually met any of the other divines, nor have I even seen Hai'vreh'era with my own eyes or heard his voice. Most of what I know I overheard from hushed conversations in the rare instances that two slaves entered my basement at the same time, or what Feevesha told me. The slaves were told very little, just given practical instructions... though some of the words they used lead me to think Hai'vreh'era was doing some kind of experimentation. Most of the other angels were never used for anything; he simply summoned them, put them in binding circles and left them there. I do know he also put his slaves in binding circles occasionally, but I do not know why.”
He paused for a second to think before adding: “Most of the names I heard belonged to the slaves, of course, but aside from that... I heard Algar Lowcreek mentioned once or twice. And Paul IV. But I have little context besides the names, and Feevesha knew nothing of them aside from them being rulers of Rodoria.”

“What awaits you in Drigall?”
“Exile, most likely,” the thalk stated with a shrug. “But I hope against hope that I might find Feevesha there. Otherwise, perhaps I can earn my old Lord's forgiveness... or perhaps forge a pact with another god or archangel, that I might be redeemed.”
Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, and Yanin – Upstairs Guest Bedroom, Bor Manor, Borstown

When Yanin asked for clarification on Caleb's mention of who he described as “the broken one”, the thalk delayed his tale long enough to give a brief explanation.
“That one,” he said, pointing a long claw-adorned finger at Freagon. “To me, at least, that is the most distinctive quality of him. I can only describe his soul as 'broken'.”

After the tale was told Yanin asked for elaboration on a couple of points, the first of which was: “Feevesha freed you – it was fairly recent, then? Do you know where the place was?
“Relatively recent, yes,” the fallen angel nodded his head, his gaze growing distant for a moment as if deep in thought. “About half a decade ago, I think. In the southern part of the duchy of Gilmah. I could lead you to the exact place where the ruins remain, though that hardly seems a priority right now... and I would much rather never see that place again, let alone spend the days in this realm it would take us to go there.”
On the Knight of the Glades' second inquiry as to Caleb returning to the Neverrealm, the red-skinned creature nodded his head affirmatively. “I sent myself back once I thought Feevesha would be able to handle herself, yes. Though I was reluctant to leave her behind, we both agreed that her being accompanied by a fully summoned divine would invite unwelcome scrutiny. She summoned me many times between then and now, but always as a wraith, and usually just to speak with me. She would make little straw dolls to summon me into in the evenings, and we would keep each other company until my vessel disintegrated.” There was a warmth in Caleb's voice that stood in stark contrast to the contempt he had expressed when speaking about himself, though it was a warmth tinged with the sharp pain of loss; the combination of fondness of a memory, and regret that it would now only ever be a memory.

Jordan, Nabi, Madara and Jaelnec – Traversing Bor Manor, Borstown

Jaelnec was quite relieved when Jordan addressed him and Madara and invited them to participate in the sweep of the manor. It was one thing to remain stoic and tense while on guard for a conflict to spill into his area, but once things with the divine in the bedroom had calmed down and danger seemed to have passed, the young nightwalker ironically grew more anxious rather than less. Being alone with the half-palanter like this – a woman he did not even know the name of, let alone anything more significant than that besides what he could interpret from her appearance – was almost more stressful to him than the thought of being pulled into a battle to the death. What was he supposed to do? Was he meant to say something in this situation or let the silence linger? Would it be rude of him to address her? Should he introduce himself, or wait for her to introduce herself first? Was he supposed to offer a handshake or bow to her? Or maybe it would be even better to kneel and pledge to defend her?
Sweating nervously and with his frightened heart pounding in his chest, he had quietly fidgeted in place, trying to keep her in his peripheral vision without looking at her, trying to find a way to stand that seemed both comfortable and confident, trying to figure out what to do with his hands... which were still clutching the two iron truncheons he had never had cause to use. The end result was that he likely seemed every bit as uncomfortable as he felt, which contrasted how steady and focused he has seemed so long as danger had still seemed imminent.
He was so grateful to be saved from that situation that he immediately forgave Jordan for only inviting Jaelnec as an afterthought. Besides, it was quite understandable for him to not see much value on the page's participation; not only did his words suggest that Madara was a healer of some kind, which could indeed be useful, but Jaelnec had also done nothing to prove his worth yet.

Jordan spoke some more as Jaelnec started to follow the rest of their little group, and the nightwalker was able to surmise from what he had overheard him and Nabi talk about earlier that it was regarding pursuing the bandits to save the healer of Borstown. He did not have much to add besides assurances that the squire's last assumption was correct: “I'm sure Sir Freagon is ready and eager, and I don't need rest either.” Why would I? I haven't even done anything yet...

As they reached the top of the stairs leading back down to the ground floor in the hall of Bor Manor, the penin woman who had asked for their help was indeed standing just inside the door. She stood in silence, her unusual and exquisite crossbow in hand, and stared at the scene before her with a blank expression on her face. She twitched the second the first of them appeared in her field of vision at the top of the stairs, instantly switching her entire stance and bringing her loaded crossbow up to aim directly at them, only to then just as quickly relax and lower her weapon once she confirmed that they were not enemies. Her movements were impressively fast and accurate, and both them and her stance suggested that she had a lot of practice with that weapon and was likely far from defenseless despite her age.
Descending the stairs, the group would start to hear voices from the outside, most of which they would recognize as being from the people they had encountered on their way inside the manor, namely the baroness' servants, two of which Madara learned were called Wade and Kylie. The tone out there sounded excited, relieved and almost celebratory, though an unknown fourth voice – a man's voice – sounded much more severe. They were not able to pick up what they were saying without getting closer.

Vela's eyes shifted from the group descending the stairs to the bloody, mutilated remains on the floor, then shifted back to remain fixed on them again. She did not seem to pay any attention to the destroyed ceramics and furniture, the slightly damaged staircase, nor the water-drenched floor, but seemed solely concerned with the dead and the living, with her priorities eventually shifting in the favor of the living over the dead.
She did not say anything as Jordan delivered his report, though her eyes did widen noticeably when he did not elaborate any further but instead addressed Nabi and Madara, then turned away and started heading off toward the east wing. She lunged forward as they were leaving, seizing Jaelnec's wrist as he was moving to follow the others, and stared at him with a panicked expression.
“Wait,” she pleaded, her tone fearful and concerned. “Where's the rest of you? They didn't...” The sentence trailed off, but Jaelnec's own eyes widened in a panic of his own as it had been enough for him to realize how this looked. All the carnage on display here, and only half the people who had entered returned.
“The others are fine,” he urgently assured her the penin. “They're still upstairs, uh... wrapping things up? But they're fine, we're all still alive.”
Vela was visibly relieved by these news, but her eyes shifted to the western staircase they had just descended. She wordlessly relinquished her grip on Jaelnec's wrist and stepped past him, moving much faster and easier than one would expect from such an old woman to ascend the stairs and seek out where the rest of the party could be found.

In the lower east wing Jordan called out to the survivor they had been told was hiding there, offering assurances that the danger had passed and that they were there to help. He got a response almost immediately as a male voice – sounding extremely relieved and eager – called out from the last room on the right.
“I'm here! I'm coming out!” he shouted, followed quickly by the sound of a piece of heavy furniture being moved, a latch being on the door being disengaged, finally followed by the click of a key turning in its lock before the door itself swung inward.
A red-haired human man exited the room, looking somewhat disheveled but otherwise unharmed. He looked to be in his mid-thirties with shortish hair, a bit of scruff on his face that looked like it had been at least a couple of weeks since he had last shaven, and what appeared to be regular peasant's clothes clumsily adorned with little cheap decorations, like simple brass buckles and brooches. An old, worn machete – which looked as though it had seen plenty of use as a tool, and little to none as a weapon – was tied to his waist with a strip of leather imitating a belt. He looked very much like an average citizen trying to dress up as an adventurer.
“Thank the Primes, the gods, and of course thank you, my fellow heroes!” the man greeted them boisterously, making a grand, sweeping gesture with his arms, grinning at them broadly. Though he seemed happy and relaxed now, it was obvious at a glance at his face that he had been crying. “I tried my best, but there were just too many of them, so I retreated to this room to, uh, regroup!”
Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, and Yanin – Bor Manor, Borstown

Caleb had been watching Lhirin throughout his business in the room with its unreadable, expressionless and inhuman face providing very little in terms of hints as to what he might be thinking. He simply stared at him with big, unblinking, glowing green eyes without moving from the spot or saying anything. He only shifted his focus to Irah once she directed her magical senses at him – something Caleb evidently noticed instantly – and reacted with confusion when he saw what Lhirin communicated to her with their secret sign-language. But secret or not, it was still a language, and as such the True Words allowed Caleb to understand its meaning.
That did not mean that he understood why the message was being expressed. Caleb's eyes shifted instantly back to Irah when he detected her trying to communicate with him through body-language, and he kept staring at her unwaveringly as she spoke out loud.

Once Irah finished talking, interestingly, the thalk finally looked away. He turned his attention to the window, looking out at the sunlit acres of Borstown outside.
When he finally spoke, his voice was as monotone and expressionless as his face. “Angel of Deceit, indeed. The broken one was not wrong; I did deceive you, and I both intended and tried to kill you. I was going to, regardless of who you were, what you did and what you said. I was angry... no, I am still angry, and I wanted to leave a scar upon this realm in Feevesha's name that would never heal, and carve her memory into it forever. I do not know what made you question me now, but...”
He sighed deeply. “Long ago – I do not even know how long – when I was still one of Frenis' faithful servants, I was called to Reniam as an Angel of Fortune. This favored one instructed me to step into a binding circle, and to direct the divine energy I siphoned from Drigall into a crystal. That crystal, it turned out, powered the binding circle, which forced me to continue the flow. Such a simple trick, getting a thalk to power its own eternal imprisonment. For the price of a small bit of gold, with just two commands, I was rendered a helpless power-source.”
Caleb turned back to stare at Irah once again. “The favored one left, and I never saw her again. I learned over the time I spent there, stuck in that basement, that she had been hired to call a thalk by the master of the place, a mage called Hai'vreh'era, and that the power I provided did more than just keep me trapped. There were more angels in other rooms, all kept prisoner by my power.”
He paused, then shook his head in resignation. “For so long I prayed for Frenis to liberate me. For him to send another angel to save me, for him to send another of his mortal servants to stop the wicked sorcerer, for him to take away my power. My Lord never reacted. That is how I eventually Fell: I broke my oath to my Lord hoping that I would lose my power and thus disable the binding circle. You are correct that my innate power, after Falling, is pitiful; unless I stand still and gather energy over time, I am all but powerless... but to my endless despair, my ability to siphon divine energy remained. The circle remained functional, so I remained trapped.”
He turned his attention back to the window. “But it was not just angels Hai'vreh'era kept there, he also kept mundane slaves. I saw them occasionally in my basement, beaten and scarred, too scared to even look at me. I pleaded for them to save me, to kill me, to do anything, but they all ignored me. Who would risk the master's ire to trust an Angel of Deceit, after all?”
He chuckled. “They all ignored me, until one slave did not. Feevesha was the first in my captivity to listen to me, to look at me and to speak to me. Born a slave, raised into subservience... just like me to my Lord. But she ignored Hai'vreh'era's orders and listened.” His chuckle intensified into laughter; a frenzied, manic sound, as his eyes grew impossibly wide and his jaws opened in an expression of mad glee. “She broke the binding circle, and I regained my freedom... and as I did, so did all the angels my power kept captive. I do not know exactly what happened outside the basement, but when Feevesha and I emerged there was nothing left but carnage. Everyone had been violently killed. It was gruesome... but I have never felt such delight.”
Having calmed back down while speaking, Caleb once again turned to look at Irah. “I found one of Hai'vreh'era's spell books and helped Feevesha record the magic inside for herself. I taught her my true name and how to summon me. I gave her everything I had to give, every shred of power and knowledge, and bound myself as her guardian. As far as I was concerned, she was my new god. She was everything to me.”
His gaze lowered to the floor at Irah's feet. “If you believe anything this accursed deceiver, abandoned and forgotten by his god and feared and hated by mundanes, says, let it be this: I am certain from the depths of my tainted soul that Feevesha's life is what created this vessel for me. The agony that wracks my being to its core, the sense of loss I feel at her absence, the intensity of the hatred I feel for my current form...” He shook his head in disgust. “I am Fallen; she is very likely the only mundane who knows how to summon me, and certainly the only one in Rodoria, yet she was not here when I was summoned. I was alone, because my summoner had become my vessel. You attribute me personhood? You would show me kindness and compassion? I am a horrid stain upon this wretched realm, my only value was as a servant to Feevesha. I will serve her this one last time, then I will return to Drigall forever.”
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