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The room was large for this kind of clinic, especially with how far from the city center it was, and was generally furnished in a way that was puzzlingly different from what one might expect from such a place. Thirty meters wide and twenty meters long, by far most of the room was occupied by nothing but rows of simple cots arranged in an obviously deliberate manner, head to foot and side by side, with just enough room between each cot for an attendee to fit through the space. Several small chandeliers hang from the ceiling to assist the sconces mounted on the walls, numerous enough that the room would likely have been quite well-lit normally, yet the room was beginning to dim as candles burned out, leaving some flames flickering and others gone, forming islands of shadow around some of the cots.
On one of the two longest sides of the room, nestled against the wall, was a series of small tables, blackboards and apparatus; clearly the equipment of the blood minister running the clinic. But there was also a couple of wooden barrels standing in the corner that seemed anything but meant for a man of the church, as they were full of instruments of death rather than healing; swords, axes, and spears stuck out of the top of them in a selection that was remarkably mundane considering the clients currently occupying it. Weapons for normal people, not Hunters.
Opposite of the healer's equipment, in the middle of that wall, was the single entrance and exit out of the room: a sturdy wooden door, closed shut against the world outside.

The room was quiet aside from occasional whimpers, as the people lying on the cots – men and women who had been given blood treatment and were undergoing the metamorphosis from human to Hunter – squirmed and thrashed in the throes of the nightmares haunting them, of beasts that could not reach them, and Messengers who eagerly did. But it was not deserted, actually; someone was watching.
From the inky blackness pooling in one corner of the room stepped a lone figure, silent as the darkness itself, and surveyed the room. The figure wore the typical uniform of a Hunter, the so-called Hunter's garb, only with the top of the head wrapped in cloth under their cap, which in combination with their mask completely obfuscated their appearance. Their motions had the fluency of someone both confident and nimble, and one might be tempted to think that the quiet nature of their footfalls came not from effort to make them so, but from habit.
The Hunter turned their head slowly, letting their eyes take in the sight of the many cots and their occupants in front of them. This was... very strange. Since the Night of the Blood Moon the Healing Church had been very protective of their Paleblood Hunters and had turned them all at the upper Cathedral Ward, at the very heart of their domain, yet these Paleblood Hunters were being turned as far away from there as possible without leaving Yharnam. And there were so many of them! The Hunter had never seen anything quite like this.

While examining the people gathered before them, the Hunter abruptly stopped turning their head, fixing their attention on one cot in particular, situated in the far right corner of the room compared to the exit. The room was crawling with Messengers, naturally – how could it not be with so many Paleblood Hunters in one place? – but they were absolutely swarming that particular cot, crowding around it eagerly to have their turn at climbing atop of it, shoving one another as they tried to reach the person hidden underneath the layers of otherworldly creatures. They were pushing, pulling and shaking the person, clearly agitated.
With no other sound than a faint rustle of their coat the Hunter crossed the room with long, steady strides to investigate this phenomenon more closely. They dispersed the swarming Messengers with a wave of a gloved hand, revealing the object of their fascination: a man with a somewhat foreign look, probably hailing from far from Yharnam. The most unusual thing about this man was his complexion, which was white as a ghost but with veins that stood out as black against the white skin, along with black eyelids and -sockets. His lips were light-blue and his cheeks were sunken, making him look incredibly ill.
The Hunter cocked their head curiously, gently running the fingertips of one hand along the man's face. He was dead. He had been given blood treatment, but had still died? But... the thing inside him... it felt like Paleblood. Why had he died?
Carefully brushing the man's hair away from his eyes, the Hunter raised their head to survey the room in its entirety once more, only now looking for something specific. Indeed, randomly distributed across the room were another three cots with Messengers clamoring to get to the people lying on them. Four dead? Very strange indeed.

The Hunter moved slowly towards the center of the room, taking a moment as they went to look at and caress the face of every transforming Paleblood on their way, wanting nothing more than to assure these people that even if the Healing Church saw them as nothing but tools, they had the Hunter's sympathy. Outside, where the sky had was turning crimson with the setting of the sun, howling could be heard in the distance. Somewhere else, much closer to the clinic, more howls answered the first. A Night of the Hunt, as marked by the tolling of the bells... ah, but the Healing Church had no idea. The Hunter could tell, though: this would not be a normal Night of the Hunt. This night could take days, weeks, months or even years. This was going to be a hunt to remember.

At the middle of the room the Hunter was met by four Messengers on the floor, waving their arms to gain their attention. The Hunter paused expectantly, and one of the Messengers held up one of its thin, bony arms high above its head and closed its fingers around something invisible, clearly miming that it was holding up a lamp. The Hunter shook their head and made a shooing gesture with its hand, and the four Messengers sullenly retreated back into the floor, disappearing into wherever Messengers went. The gatekeepers would find a different place to raise their marker. Not here. Having it here would be too easy.
The Hunter turned their head to the door and cocked their head once again, as if staring at it intently. The door was locked, likely in an effort to keep out the beasts that would be coming soon. It was durable... but not indestructible. Getting through would be quite possible, even if it was going to take a little while. And if these Palebloods could not find it in themselves to conquer the door, the beasts outside doubtlessly would.

Shrugging, the Hunter reached their right hand into one of the pockets of their coat and produced a human skull. They held the skull up high over their head before clenching their fingers into a fist, crushing the object in their grasp and unleashing a fine mist of whitish dust, strewn with specks of light that glittered like stars. Then the Hunter themselves abruptly lost opacity, rapidly turning transparent before, in a heartbeat, they were gone. Had it not been for the gently spreading dust of the skull, one might have been tempted to believe that the Hunter had been naught but a dream.

All that remained in the room was the Palebloods, and the host of Messengers doting on their sleeping masters. Howls echoed once more through the city of Yharnam, curdling the blood of many a Yharnamite who could do nothing but huddle closer to their censers, hoping against hope that they had enough incense to make it through the night.
Not Hunters, though, and most certainly not Paleblood Hunters... even false ones. A Hunter must hunt.
It was time to awaken.

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!”
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