Last updated on March 12th, 2016
Author’s Note: This is a work of fan fiction, written to pay tribute to both the video game Bloodborne and the visionary author H.P. Lovecraft. I in no way seek financial gain from it, and the settings, concepts, and some of the characters within remain the intellectual property of From Software and Sony Entertainment.
The terrifying light of the blood red moon bleeds through the gaps in the shutters and illuminates my parchment. My hand shakes uncontrollably as I write this, and the quill drips ink between the lines of dialogue as I attempt to put down this record, however sparse and brief, of the circumstances that led me to this point. If my account seems unreliable or the narrative broken, then the reader must forgive me, for I am distracted with great frequency by the back of my hand holding the quill in the ruby light, upon which a dense knot of beastly hairs has recently begun to sprout, and seems but to grow as if by the minute…
Furthermore, one cannot but be remiss in one’s narrative when one is accosted not only by the unearthly howls echoing through the accursed night outside, the now ever present cry of the hunt; but also the dread memories which assault one’s own mind, as if still I have not properly awoken from the terrible dreams that afflict me by night as my increasingly base urges do by day.
One can get at least a sense of security by boarding up one’s house, as myself and Amele did before she was rendered bedridden by her condition. Even now I hear her unearthly cries from the lower floor… But what boards can one put up in the mind, where perhaps the most awful terrors lurk? Those borne of inhuman knowledge, and of things that perhaps only death can truly silence, if they can be at all…
Thus the only defence I have stowed for this purpose is the blunderbuss currently secured in my strongbox at my feet. So if my narrative should suddenly cease, you, dear reader, will know that the howling from the ether has become too much to bear…
But before that comes to pass I must attempt to recount, for posterity, how I ended up in this wretched town, this ill-fated citadel, and with the tides of time against me I will focus on but one period and my encounter with perhaps the only two honorable persons left this ill fated citadel (unless you count myself and poor Amele, of which I have my doubts): the Constable and the Crow.
Of my arrival in Yharnam I naturally remember very little. My affliction had left me weak and delusional; what had started with intense headaches and feints had progressed to seizures, vomiting and hallucinations. I could no longer tell the real from the dream at least a half of the time. The underground doctors I paid in my homeland had told me of an incurable growth deep in my brain, near to the region known as the amygdala, and that my only recourse was to set my affairs in order by my family and prepare for my final day. Of course, as you may well divine, I had heard the rumours of this place, of miracle cures and blood saints, and set out post haste in my disheveled state.
Of my recovery I have vague memories of stumbling into a cathedral, of a contract, of blood ministration… and then of course my awakening, revived, refreshed, more alive than I had ever been all my life. The pain in my head had gone, my skin had recovered its pallor (though it was always a little greyish), the fluids in my lungs and belly had receded. As I arose from sweat soaked sheets and stared up at the great hall of the recovery room, the grotesque hooded statues above seemed as angels of elysium plains to my utter joy. I was alive! I was well!
What may seem more curious to the reader is not why I arrived in Yharnam, but why I stayed. For this I must make a candid confession: I had not just dragged myself towards Yharnam for a cure but also away from my homeland, for I had accrued a series of debts from youthful misdoings. I must also confess I felt a strange affinity with the place, a passing strange desire to reside there at least for a time to see it’s marvels, which I must now put down to the euphoria of my unexpected wellness after so long a period of malady. Thus it was to the great surprise and I imagine somewhat disdain of the healing church nun’s attending to me that I asked as to where I might find lodgings.
The day I left my sickbed the Yharnam sunrise seemed a most glorious thing indeed, bathing the gothic spires, wrought iron balusters and crooked streets in a golden glow the colour of glorious life itself. Such was my ecstatic gratitude to this town that have saved me that I paid no heed to the derisory, nay, hostile glares of some of the inhabitants in the street, the strange shapes lurking in alleys, or the ever present bizarre effigies mounted in every square and courtyard. As I strode down those cobbled, pebble strewn streets I was a man born-again, a traveller at the start of a glorious adventure.
Oh, naive youth! Oh, foolish ambition!
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