The Sandman (Bloodborne)

[Lemor]

Chapter 26

Amelia was praying.

For the Vicar, this was a routine practice. Her prayers were dictated neither by formality nor blind faith. The motives were simple: through prayer, she sought answers from the Great Ebrietas.

"What should I do? How should I act? Will you protect me? Just this once?.."

The Sandman was not sitting idle. This unnerved Amelia, provoking the beast within her that demanded... if not open confrontation, defying the sheer foolishness of such an action, then at least clipping the industrious entity's wings a fraction.

The Church's internal divisions on such matters worked against it. By vote, the Choir had concluded that one could not act swiftly with such a being, just as one could not with any other Great One. The Church revered the Great Ones, striving to become like them through blood, and thus Amelia understood the Choir's desire to study the bearer of the Old Blood more deeply, to attempt to extract a fragment of knowledge from him through fake clients—but...

Amelia knew nothing would come of it. A single meeting with the one who had taken the name Arthur Sand was enough for the woman to draw certain conclusions.

The Sandman's assistance to the Vileblood Queen deserved separate mention. Although the Church had managed to exploit the situation and, on the whole, pacify the common folk, they had simultaneously kicked a time bomb. Amelia had no doubt that the Queen had struck a deal with the Sandman, and there was no need to clarify what a catastrophe it was already becoming for them.

The woman opened her eyes and looked up at the altar, feeling a mounting pain in her body and simply ignoring it.

She possessed the strength to endure. This was her duty. She would get through this. Her life was worth nothing before the goal.

"So, he stepped out of the pub and vanished..." Amelia whispered. "Where could he have gone personally, and to what end?"

"I do not think that is of great importance right now. I found the deliberate demonstration of his departure far more amusing, Vicar," another voice replied with a distinct smile. "The Sandman observes us just as we observe him."

Amelia turned to the elder Iosefka.

"You place yourself and him on the same level. This will end in a fate worse than death for you, Iosefka."

Not a single muscle twitched on the girl's face.

"In that case, we shall never become like them, Vicar Amelia."

Amelia did not deem it necessary to argue with her. She knew the peculiarities of the elder Iosefka's psyche. Everyone who possessed even a passing acquaintance with her knew. And they either accepted it, or feared and avoided her, or ignored it—for her utility as a researcher of the Old Blood was indisputable.

Though the Small Celestial Emissaries were not considered a successful experiment, in a way it could be deemed a breakthrough: the subjects truly attained a unique power, despite the horrific price. Horrific, yet acceptable. On the path to ascension, one could not do without trial and error. Iosefka, moreover, had demonstrated a semblance of success, unlike her... more lackluster younger sister. The younger Iosefka was distinguished by her ability to partially cleanse the Old Blood of the Great Ones' will that fed the beast, but her method could not be implemented on a mass scale, and thus the utility of her discovery was called into question. At the very least, her clinic created a favourable impression of the Healing Church.

The Vicar turned away from the elder Iosefka, plunging into thought.

"Now is a good moment to act. The Choir can no longer be so divided. Not now. The Church needs unity..."

For the past months, she had waited patiently, prayed dutifully, followed the will of the Choir's members, while forming alliances with certain representatives. Perhaps she could have advanced her initiatives through more... peaceful methods, but witnessing what was unfolding right under their noses, Amelia believed the risk was justified.

"So unexpected..." Iosefka gasped in surprise. "But did you not say not to place us on the same level as him? The Sandman will surely realise you intend to use him."

Amelia shook her head.

"I am not trying to use him. I merely wish to show that the Church will not ignore the emergence of such a rapidly growing cult. At least, openly."

She would seize control through the only possible method: fear. The profound terror that only a godlike, unknowable entity could bring.

"How hypocritical," Iosefka admired. "But such duplicity is precisely what a Vicar must possess, is it not?"

The Vicar let the barb pass completely unnoticed. Amelia did not believe a small disruption would greatly provoke the Sandman. Perhaps he was not as benevolent toward them as he was toward the Vileblood Queen, but he had not undertaken any larger-scale actions either. This meant either that the entity for some reason saw no sense in it yet, or that it simply lacked sufficient strength for now, and the cult served as a means to gather that power. Both options, even if only partially true, suited Amelia despite all the risks.

The Vicar did not dare place herself on the same level as such a Great One, yet she knew all too well how vulnerable the Great Ones could be in certain situations. The dead Kos, washed ashore at the Fishing Hamlet. A gift from above that had granted the Church boundless data. Ebrietas, who did not even attempt to resist, ignoring everything they did.

If the Master of Sand was indeed weakened for some reason, now was the perfect moment to... stir him just a fraction, create panic within the Church and specifically among the members of the Choir, and then begin to act. Though for a short term, power must be concentrated in her hands to mobilise all the Church's resources if necessary. And Amelia had ideas as to who within the Church could help realise her plans. After all, the Vicar herself had partially lent a hand in creating her own ally. Unstable, losing his mind, yet loyal, possessing the reputation of a man whom others were ready to follow to the bitter end. With his help, no one would question Amelia's authority.

"How is Ludwig faring?" Amelia asked, turning back around. "Does his Holy Blade still come to him in his nightmares? Does he speak with his sword often?"

A flash of genuine sympathy and pity flickered in the Vicar's voice; everything within her screamed how wrong the situation was, yet their goal was too grand and distant for it to stop her. In a way, Amelia was far more insane than the empathy-deprived Iosefka, and the latter felt it, involuntarily bowing her head before the monster in the guise of a gentle and kind woman. Their goals and desires were aligned; closeness to the Vicar yielded many opportunities, and she would gain even more if the Vicar achieved success.

"The condition of the Church's first hunter remains stable for now."

"That is heartening," Amelia smiled. "I wish to arrange a secret meeting with him, Iosefka."

"I shall convey your desire," the elder Iosefka nodded.

"Excellent," Amelia's smile widened slightly. "How are your personal researches progressing?"

The elder Iosefka's mood soured imperceptibly.

"I feel that my sister has discovered something vital regarding the Sandman, but she conceals it from me."

Amelia frowned, lost in thought.

"Notes?"

"Only in her head."

Amelia felt a foul premonition. The woman turned to the girl, staring into her eyes with an unreadable gaze. Iosefka's tone. By tone alone, Amelia understood her intentions.

"She is your sister. Do not forget that, Iosefka. Blood ties are far too precious. You yourself lent a hand to her distrust. Speak with... No," the woman cut herself off sharply. "Later, I shall speak with her myself. You may go."

"Understood."

Amelia watched the psychopath slowly depart, allowing herself a cautious exhale only after she had gone. It was not fear. Rather, the Vicar was restraining herself from accidentally tearing the girl to pieces. Fortunately, for now, sanity prevailed. The elder Iosefka could still be of use to her. Just as she could be of use to her.

Amelia returned once more to prayer, and to her surprise, at the edge of her consciousness, she suddenly heard something vaguely resembling a voice. A thought shaped into speech, carrying images and meanings which, after a moment's reflection, the Vicar could somehow interpret:

The Great Ebrietas would help her. Just once.

It seemed now truly was the best moment to act.

***​

Fog. A dense fog and an insurmountable, eerie sensation, as if warning me that any further path was forbidden. These were my first impressions upon arriving in the village cursed by dead Gods. Even after stepping out of the carriage, the odour of rotten fish reached me—so familiar that something twisted unpleasantly inside my stomach. However, I gave no sign, remaining outwardly completely calm.

"You need not follow me any further," I reassured the coachman. "You may depart for now."

"B-but how will I know that..."

"You will know," I said softly.

"U-understood..."

The nervous horses eagerly followed the coachman's command. Soon the carriage vanished into the fog, leaving me alone. Practically.

"Your desire to bring me to this place frightens me, Arthur..."

I huffed.

"Your perceptiveness delights me."

Among other things, I truly wanted to bring her to this place. The first and most vital stage of rehabilitation was complete—but who said that would be enough? The girl needed to look her fear in the eye.

"I believe there is still life remaining in this village, Arthur."

"I don't doubt it," I rolled my eyes. "It will be interesting to look upon it. Tell me everything. From the very beginning."

The girl hesitated, but not for long. Soon a rather sparse tale echoed in my head, slightly supplementing the knowledge I possessed from the game.

Initially, the Church did not know what specifically was happening in the village. A mere rumour arrived that the villagers had begun to worship some sea god, for which they paid with a curse. At least, so they were told by surviving travellers who, by a cruel joke of fate, had wandered into the village. The Church took the news seriously, sending a group of hunters led by Gehrman and Maria to investigate. Soon, everything was confirmed: the village was indeed cursed. Those who worshipped the dead Great One washed ashore had not only begun to greedily devour the larvae and Phantasms that crawled out of it, but had themselves begun to transform into fish-like creatures.

What could the Church desire? Naturally, among other things, to study the interesting mutation.

"...we were told to harvest their eyes..."

The amphibians, as they called them, were no longer considered human. That was how the order was explained to Maria. Granted, the turned people truly bore little resemblance to them, and would likely bring nothing good in the future—but did that diminish the magnitude of the sin committed?

"I must admit," I interjected, "it fascinates me how, with your level of technology and utter lack of understanding regarding the process of Ascension, you managed to venture so far. There is a logic to your actions, but the sheer barbarism with which you approached the problem of expanding your own perception raises many questions for me."

They had not only practically slaughtered almost the entire village, missing only those who managed to hide, but had also eviscerated the corpse of the Great One—full of strange larvae and Phantasms—extracting the foetus with the Orphan of Kos. And Maria had personally participated in this process.

The young girl had been prepared for many orders; curiosity drove her to mad things, but a trip that seemed unremarkable at first glance ended in a near-total breakdown for her psyche. What came next was already clear: the Research Hall, an attempt to help and at least slightly remedy the situation, the realisation of the abyss, total collapse and...

Regardless, we had already been through this.

Maria's silence was better than any words. I merely huffed merrily at it, attempting to conceal the less-than-pleasant sensations of being in such a... specific place. Howard Lovecraft would have given a standing ovation had he found himself in such a repulsive location. With every step deeper into the village, I sank further into the finest illustration of dark fantasy horror.

Stone, half-ruined huts stood in uneven rows, their roofs covered in slime and walls in mould. Narrow streets, slick with seawater, aroused a strange instinctive loathing in me; the stench of rot grew ever stronger. Along the way, I encountered a wall carved with a stone inscription: Run.

I, unfortunately, did not intend to run. Moreover, there were still those here whom I could at least slightly help.

"Charming..."

Along the way, I encountered a slug. White, quite large, bearing little resemblance to its terrestrial counterparts, it had been at rest until my arrival, when it suddenly came to life, trembling repulsively.

"A Phantasm. We believed we had taken them all. There must still be amphibians dwelling here," Maria stated.

The amphibians fed on the larvae and Phantasms of the Great One, so it was not difficult to guess who might breed them for further consumption. The Church had no need for the larvae, which could not be said for the Phantasms: their shells possessed a unique property, imbuing weapons with a fragment of preternatural power for a time. Small wonder the Church grew interested in them.

I approached the slug, starting to study it with a slight squint. The nature of the slug was not entirely material—I could say that for certain. Tinted with a faint flair of the Dream Realm, in a sense a tiny kinsman from the depths of the dream world stood before me. Infinitely distant from me, yet still bearing a fragment of the Realm.

This world harboured much that I could never have conceived of before. Had someone told me previously that somewhere they bred slugs dwelling in a borderline state between dream and the Waking World, I would never have believed it. But here it was—dark fantasy knew how to surprise. Again.

I extended my hand, allowing the excited slug to crawl onto it. It began to rub against me like a dog seeing its master after a long separation. Moreover, this feeling was reinforced by faint, practically imperceptible mental impulses: the Phantasm welcomed me, and I welcomed it in return.

"Phantasms are the familiars of the Great Ones," the girl shared her knowledge. "It sees a Great One in you, Arthur."

"It senses my connection to the dream, just as little Lily does," I said. "There is a hierarchy in the dream world, and it simply follows it."

"Does that contradict my words?"

"Not in the least," I easily agreed, shaking the little fellow from my palm. "In all likelihood, it truly sees a Great One in me, rather than someone else."

Take my connection to the dream and add the Old Blood I had already partaken of in respectable quantities, and the little one could indeed mistake me for something else. This brought me no joy—but fortunately, I was not allowed to plunge too deeply into thought: very soon, I chanced to meet the first two-legged inhabitant of the village. They emerged slowly from the fog. Distorted, overgrown with coral, pale as death, they held something resembling harpoons and sticks. Every step they took was accompanied by a repulsive squelch; the stench became stronger than ever.

I tipped my hat, tapping my cane.

"Wonderful weather, friends."

My response was a growl full of inhuman malice, followed by the throw of a harpoon—which, however, was not destined to reach me. Maria partially seized control of the body, shifting the torso slightly, catching the flying harpoon, already wishing to return it to the sender, but I stopped the girl who was ready for a new slaughter, lowering the weapon. After all, we came for therapy among other things—not so she could finish what was started. Morpheus calm her!

I surveyed the frozen mutants, then smiled my most amicable and genuine smile. Brown eyes filled with preternatural warmth; my voice acquired notes that seemed to come from the very depths of the dream world.

"Are you truly so displeased to have guests?"

My voice rippled out as if across the entire village, and it produced its own horrific, vile effect: from the fog, previously inactive, Phantasms began to crawl out, striving to reach my feet as quickly as possible. Previously they had hidden, but my voice had become a call to them.

The stunned amphibians—survivors of the Healing Church hunters' onslaught—shrieked something inarticulately, beginning to cast their homemade weapons to the ground and fall to their knees.

I had guessed what I would see, and so only smiled a fraction warmer at the sight unfolding, ignoring the larvae that had begun to painfully and actively crawl onto me.

Lords of Dreams, what a mess I've dragged myself and Maria into.

Belatedly, I realised that perhaps after such a specific joint trip, I would need to take her to some theatre—but that would be after the Fishing Hamlet!

Hopefully, nothing too extraordinary occurs in Yharnam during my absence.

Spoiler: concept_art26

 

[Lemor]

Chapter 27

Organising a raid on the Sandman's cultists proved relatively simple. Though the entity's preacher exercised caution, changing meeting locations, if one person knew the gathering point, the rest could easily find out. Someone said something somewhere, someone heard something somewhere, someone was not averse to earning a little coin. The rest was a matter of a single command.

The group of superhumans led by Ludwig, the first hunter of the Healing Church, was doomed to succeed. They acted swiftly and precisely, and the cultists did half the work themselves by barricading themselves in a place with only one exit.

They, led by Karl, were brought out into the street. A rather strong wind was blowing; the city slept as usual, unaware of the momentous event the unfolding night had birthed.

Unfortunately, problems during the raid could not be avoided.

"He resisted! Master Ludwig, I swear, I barely pushed him!.."

A young man, a mere boy in hunter's garb, tried to justify himself, but words did not help: his comrades seized the lad and, under Ludwig's silent gaze, led him away through the dark streets to the Church. He would have to pray for forgiveness for a long time.

A corpse. A corpse with a caved-in chest: the boy was too accustomed to fighting beasts. The body of an ordinary human proved exceedingly fragile.

Ludwig had wished to avoid unnecessary killings. He agreed to help the Vicar, but did not set out to harm people. He was as devoted to his cause as the Church would allow. Oh, he knew what organisation he belonged to. And yet, he believed he could influence something, change things.

How naive.

The distorted neigh of a horse echoed in his head; the holy moonlight sword at his hip trembled. His true mentor and guiding star calmed him, even though something at the edge of his consciousness still whispered for Ludwig to rid himself of the sword immediately.

Foolishness.

"Oh Gods..."

"Is all well, Master Ludwig?"

Harry's anxious question distracted Ludwig. He turned to the former butcher's assistant. A kind, rather naive, foolish man, yet not bereft of the gift for slaying beasts—practically the ideal hunter in Ludwig's eyes.

"More than well," the Church's first hunter nodded grimly. "Come, let us speak with the preacher..."

Kneeling, surrounded by armed hunters ready for resistance, Karl—unlike the majority of fanatics begging the Sandman for help—was completely calm, meeting the approaching Ludwig's gaze with a smile.

The Church's first hunter was poorly acquainted with the School of Mensis, but he knew of the scholar who had survived the ritual. It was not difficult to deduce why the scholars' ritual had ended so disastrously for them. Evidently, the Sandman had not been too pleased with it.

"Karl Jay, a scholar of the School of Mensis who survived the ritual," Ludwig noted thoughtfully. "We did not expect to catch you under such circumstances."

"All is subject to the will of the Master of Sand," Karl smiled broadly. "Since we have met, it merely means he desired it. Nothing more, nothing less."

A true fanatic—that was who Ludwig saw before him, feeling nothing but oceans of contempt for the former scholar. Clad in a golden robe entirely covered in mud, it added no beauty to the man's appearance. Rather, pity.

"Was it worth it?" Ludwig asked, gripping the holy sword in its scabbard and looming over Karl. "Did the Sandman grace you with knowledge?"

The last thing Ludwig expected was for Karl to laugh. Madly, so loudly that the hunters had to press the fanatic into the damp earth, yet he would not calm down.

"We spoke of the cosmos! Of the fundamental laws of nature! Of energies and countless worlds! While you suffer from the beast devouring your soul, we have found true peace and hope!"

Ludwig shook his head. "Only madness and death await you. Did Master Micolash's experience teach you noth---"

The Church's first hunter did not have time to finish.

Something happened.

Inhuman instincts screamed of danger; the preacher's scent changed; he ceased laughing, going limp on the ground.

However, the silence did not last long.

Like a controlled marionette, Karl's head jerked up.

Dead Gods bear witness, it cost Ludwig a tremendous effort to withstand the gaze of the creature staring at him.

This was no longer the runaway scholar.

"Your sword..." the entity murmured in an affectionate voice full of hysterical madness. "An interesting trinket. Did you find it in the Pthumerian labyrinths? I see a restless spirit within it... That beast inside speaks to you, does it not?.. Guides you, shares its secrets? Ah, it is so wonderful..."

"Wh-what..."

The neighing of a horse echoed in his head once more. Fury washed over the hunter; sanity left him for a moment. The hunter drew the sword—radiant with a beautiful, otherworldly light—desiring to end the creature before it could do anything.

This was no longer the runaway scholar.

The rest of the fanatics, as if waiting for this moment, spoke in unison:

"...wretched souls who tremble for their lives every night!.."

"...vermin waiting with indifference for the next Night of the Hunt!.."

"...he hath come at our call from the depths of sleep to shield us from the nightmares that have plagued us for years! To shield our souls from the beast hidden within and grant us salvation!"

The cultists' prayers could not help but cause panic. The hunters began to exchange glances, on edge. Attempts to silence the cultists yielded little, for they already believed that should anything happen, their souls would be saved by the Sandman, the Master of Sand, the Kind Lord of Sand. After death, an eternal feast awaited them all in the pub, where the sweet ale—full of the master's warmth and affection—would never run dry.

Ludwig never managed to finish what he intended. Karl's eyes began to resemble two abysses of darkness. The world before his eyes, despite everything, shuddered.

Someone among the hunters screamed, lunging at their comrades. Someone squealed in terror, dropping their weapon and vanishing into the darkness. Someone fell to their knees, beginning to pray. Someone began to show signs of turning into a beast right before everyone's eyes.

Ludwig, however, saw the image of a malformed horse staring at him with an unnatural smile. Massive, mocking him, it opened a maw full of rotten teeth, desiring to devour him.

"Why do you hesitate, Ludwig?" the horse whispered affectionately. "Come to your senses—your enemies have already fled... Listen to your mentor..."

The sword, shining with moonlight, flared.

Ludwig snapped his eyes open, coming to his senses. The cultists were no longer nearby, and his comrades...

"Master Ludwig..."

The man turned to Harry. The latter seemed to have recovered faster than the rest, staring in surprise at the writhing hunters.

"Well done, Harry," Ludwig sighed. "How did you come to your senses so quickly?"

"I hacked down the beast that tried to deceive me with my axe!"

This answer pleased Ludwig. "Good. Be ready—the night does not end here."

Harry nodded. Ludwig did not notice the doubt in his gaze, turning back to the rest of the hunters. One of them was close to turning, letting out a guttural snarl. Before the march, the Church's first hunter had to fulfil his duty and end the life of his former comrade. It was not his job, but unfortunately, he had no time to wait for the Hunters of Hunters.

"Master Ludwig... Master Ludwig, I..."

"Sleep in peace," the man said in an icy voice.

The holy blade flashed with otherworldly light. The turning hunter's head was severed before he could do a thing. Blood began to spread across the cold earth. The neighing of a horse echoed in his head again, but quieted fairly quickly. For a short while.

Unfortunately, the night was indeed just beginning. They had failed, and therefore had to resort to more radical measures: before the march, they had prepared, learning the names of some cultists, where they lived, their families. After all, Yharnam was not that large a city. Locals could still recognise one another with a mere glance. And they would use this, staging a demonstrative pogrom in the city—much more brutal and bloody than the Vicar perhaps desired.

Only Ludwig did not intend to stop there. Amelia herself wanted him to visit not only the cultists but also the dwelling place of the one they worshipped. Well, the man saw not a single reason to resist her will.

With certain deviations from her original vision of the visit.

Harry nearly flinched. The master turned to him again, and the former butcher's assistant could have sworn his eyes shone with an otherworldly, pale blue light.

"Harry, I want you to do something."

***

​

Lily found it uncomfortable to sleep alone. She was accustomed to Arthur being near her, day and night. The sense of safety and care he provided stabilised the girl's condition, and his blood seemed to awaken her after a long slumber. Every time he let her drink it, new flowers within the dream bloomed, her senses sharpened, her consciousness cleared, becoming ever sharper—and even her influence over the waking world and the dream grew stronger, which was also reflected in her appearance.

The truth was, however, that she remained just as unstable. A victim of a far-from-successful experiment, a mutant who still had a long rehabilitation process ahead of her. Although she had no trouble serving ale to visiting clients and even conveying that the master was temporarily absent, it did not make the girl feel any calmer.

She paced the pub restlessly, and the nights were particularly difficult. The master of the pub was far away, and though he could still visit her and even bring her into his dream, the girl did not feel the same warmth she felt when Arthur was near.

Needless to say, given such circumstances, Lily reacted very painfully to the nighttime incident.

"Someone has come..."

She opened her eyes in total darkness. Nearby stood the trembling flower, broadcasting a fully conscious thought: guests had arrived. And they certainly meant no good.

Lily's illusion blurred, revealing a slimy, hideous creature with a massive, swollen head. The creature's eyes shone like two searchlights. She was already stronger than many of her kin. In every sense larger, smarter, more developed. Yet this did not spare her from fear.

Lily slowly rose from the bed, alternating between the guise of a very young girl about to blossom and a terrifying monster—which, however, was no less frightened than those about to commit a terrible folly. Grabbing the pot with the beautiful flower glowing with otherworldly light, she headed toward the pub's entrance, where someone was already knocking.

Knock.

Knock...

Knock...

Crack!

The door was smashed in. With the chime of the bell, hunters burst into the pub, meeting Lily as she came out to them.

For an agonisingly long second, the pub plunged into silence.

"The pub is closed... dear clients..." Lily gurgled softly. "Please... come back tomor---"

Her voice was drowned out by a gunshot. A bullet hole appeared at Lily's feet. It seemed this came as a surprise not only to Lily and Thalamus, but to the hunters themselves. The man who had reflexively shot at the creature stared at a terrified Harry.

The hunter aiming for the target only managed to say:

"It's a small Celestial Emi---"

But he was not destined to finish. The smashed door slammed shut. Lily's otherworldly shriek rang out; the dreamcatchers hung around the pub shook uncontrollably.

The flower began to shine.

***​

The amphibians were the village's main danger. For me, having established a slightly unusual "status," they ceased to be a threat—instead taking me for an object of worship—and thus my wanderings through the village began to resemble a tourist trip to a specific landmark.

The only somewhat palpable inconvenience was caused by the Phantasms. The slugs covered me from head to toe, and on the whole, I did not resist them. First, they fit unexpectedly well with the image I had created around myself. Second, their unique form of existence intrigued me.

Connecting the unique form of existence of a hunter from the Hunter's Dream with the life form of the little slugs did not happen immediately—even though I myself had initially called the hunter's projection a "phantasm": these creatures were too different, the gap between them too vast, and yet...

I wanted to examine these "companions of the Great Ones" more closely. Perhaps take a few of them back to the pub.

"A cursed place..." I muttered on the seashore.

The water near the shore was murky, black, astonishingly vile. The sea itself seemed composed of darkness, its waves poisoning the earth. Far in the distance, ships broken against the rocks long ago could be seen. It was the dead of night, yet the moon shone brightly enough for me to see everything perfectly.

The most seemingly ordinary shore oppressed me. Something was wrong with it, and I felt it. In this place, a creature rightfully called a Great One had truly died, and for many years to come the shore would remain cursed. Even the amphibians did not dare step onto it, worshipping the shore itself as it were, unwilling to let anyone near.

Save for me.

"Can you cleanse it of the curse, good Sandman?"

Half of my face ceased to belong to me, speaking to me.

I smiled with the corner of my lips available to me.

"Perhaps, one day. For now, I cannot promise you that. What do you feel being here, Maria?"

It took half of my face some time to formulate an answer.

"I do not like it here, but... I do not feel the fear I expected to feel."

The girl's response did not surprise me in the least.

"The expectation of horror is sometimes far more horrific than the horror itself. Such is human nature. I am glad you were able to look your fear in the eye."

The half of my face no longer belonging to me smiled.

We stood in silence, watching the restless sea illuminated by the moonlight. We were distracted only when the amphibians decided to summon me.

Maria had thrown her weapon into a well, but it did not stay there long: the surviving amphibians quickly found it, keeping it in their possession. My request to hand over the Rakuyo surprised them, but posed no problem.

The blade, capable of splitting in two, truly fascinated me. Covered in countless inscriptions, I felt I held a genuine work of art in my hands. Small wonder Maria had loved it so much in her time.

For the girl, touching the Rakuyo again—albeit somewhat indirectly through my body—became something almost intimate. I felt her dead breath catch, her eyes widen, and her heart clench. It was not excitement in the usual sense, but I could definitely say I had done the right thing in deciding to return them to Maria. Such a passionate reaction to the weapon could not help but amuse me. Moreover, I had thoughts that the girl's weapon would play a much more important role in the future.

The amphibians provided me with a small, half-ruined house by the sea. I intended to head back to Yharnam at dawn, spending nearly the entire remainder of the night studying the weapon that intrigued me, conversing with the noticeably cheered-up girl, and examining the little Phantasms.

They gathered from almost the entire village, clinging to every corner of the house, creating a "natural" glow of sorts. From the outside, it looked less than appealing—but the interest in these creatures was far stronger than the minor inconvenience.

Besides, I was not entirely alone. At some point, the far-from-talkative girl literally burst open, and for the first time truly spoke at length herself. About the history of her favourite weapon, about how long she had learned to use it, about what emotions she felt when finishing off her first beast with it, about how many countless nights she had spent honing a personal, unique combat style.

There was no need to clarify how pleased I was to hear so many stories from Maria. Usually, I was the one setting the topics of conversation—now I merely supported them.

Unfortunately, the night was not destined to end in peaceful sleep. Closer to morning, small nightmares knocked on my dream. And what I heard from them made me freeze in confusion for a moment at first—but then...

Something in my mind snapped.

Spoiler: concept_art27