Author's Note

Alrighty then, guys! Please, please be careful here! This was written at around 1am-4am in the morning, so theirs bound to be many grammatical errors, followed with retarded-ass sentences. Go ahead and point those out to me and I'll fix em, also positive criticism would be appreciated. Hopefully the first chapter isn't too bad. Just felt like pumping it out after I finished. Anyway, enjoy the read.

Mace out! o3o

Prologue

"We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes are yet to open, yet we walk forward, blinded by a semblance of purpose...Fear the old blood."

~Master Willem

Yharnam, a place plagued with the disease of beasts. Where the thought of something monstrous is just another human being. But that's just it, are you the beast, or are they? The thought has permeated the mind of all hunters once or another, for the villagers of Yharnam consider us beasts. A valid theory, yes, but no one is ever truly human. Hunters may just have their inner demons in check, for they are the only ones to destroy the creatures of Yharnam, brandashing their trick weapons and cutting down the tainted blood. All hunters however are not so valiant, so heroic like the majority. They're hunters who seek to hunt one such as them, to consume the echo's of the there soul and ascend to higher power. Roderick was somewhere in between, killing the beasts plaguing the land, yet also cutting down the hunters who saught his life.

A sigh escaped the man's lips, coaxing him into cracking his knuckles warily. Roderick was a rather aged man, although relatively young-looking. He was around his late twenties, perhaps his early thirties, but no one was ever able to tell his true age with just a glance. Gazing upwards, his gleaming hues met the iridescent orb of light in the sky. The moons subtle, yet cold rays donning the field of flowers with an enchanting glow. Lillie's dominated the graveyard of the Hunters Dream; a tall aged oak clung to the sky with it's leafless-branches. Roderick had prepared for what seemed to be his final moments. After slaying the beast, Rom, the vacuous spider, he had returned to the Hunters Dream, only to find the building set aflame! The Plain Doll--a living animate doll to be precise--sat at the foot of the steps, averting her gaze from the hunter; she seemed almost crestfallen at something. When he asked as to what happened, she replied with, "Good hunter, you have come... Dawn will soon break... This night, and this dream, will end. Gehrman awaits you, at the foot of the great tree. Go on, good hunter..."

Now, here he stood; frozen at the entrance of the graveyard, where he felt a great sense of deja-vu. He could have sworn something like this had happened before...yet why was it eluding him so? He shook his head slightly, breathing deep of the inscense inside his mask so as to calm his budding nerves. A hood was draped over his head, leaving nothing by the beak-like mask to protrude from the darkness. Mismatched hues stared from the sunken holes in the crow-shaped mask. One of azure and the other, crimson. He had donned the crowfeather outfit, gifted to him by a helping hunter of the name, Elleen, The crow. This consisted of a plague doctor-like mask, a garb of black leather with black-feathered cape, black trousers and boots. Although Elleen hunted other hunters, she did so only to the vileblooded ones. Having defeated the mysterious hunter who lethally wounded her, he came back only to be berrated. She was joking of course, but he never found himself laughing, for even he could tell she was done for. Those same words echo'd in his mind, "Don't you ever listen to your elders?" She chided with a wheezing laugh, coughing fiercely inside her plague mask, "No matter, you did save my life. I don't seem to be apt for this life anymore... My glory days were long ago now..." She sighed wistfully, looking up at him. Grunting slightly, she struggled to do even the most basic of movements, but succeeded in removing her mask. Pools of the purest blue met his mismatched gaze. A fair-skinned young women sat against the stone rail, short black hair cascaded down her face and small trails of blood quivered from her nostrils, a small line sliding down the corner of her lip, "Let me rest a while... ...I'll be fine, just wait..." She promised, her eyes fluttering now and again in an attempt to stay awake. He remember she died with a smile on her face. She seemed almost jovial near her end, but he just hoped she was in a better place.

Roderick took a step forward, his leather boots clopping against the stoned path. After passing the gate, he found his gaze swimming over the graveyard. Only a few graves actually sat in this enclosed area, and they were marked by large, wooden crosses. At the base of the great tree, sat the first hunter, Gehrman. Aged as he was, that man had helped him numerous times in the hunt, but the twisted feeling in his gut just wouldn't go away. Each step was a battle to him, but in time he stood mere feet from the hunter. The old man sat back in his wheel-chair, graying hair escaping the brim of his beige hat. Green-grey eyes met his, and a small, sad smile graced Gehrman's lips; yet a sense of foreboding clung to Roderick when Gehrman spoke. "Good hunter, you've done well. The night is near its end. Now, I will show you mercy. You will die, forget the dream, and awake under the morning sun. You will be freed...from this terrible hunter's dream..."

Roderick recoiled a few steps back, looking quite appalled from what the old man was stating. Why had the need arisen to kill him? He thought killing these beasts would help end the plague, yet even after he had vanquished all of them, he was to die?! Roderick's gaze sharpened, had it been any harder a gaze, he'd cut the man with just a stare. Yet, his voice erupted before he had time to think. "No! I refuse to be some sort of sacrificial lamb!"

He hadn't thought such a thing would make Gehrman more despondent, he almost looked disappointed...,"Dear oh dear, what was it? The hunt, the blood, or the horrible dream?" His gaze was longing for an answer, but when none was answered, he exhaled slowly. Lifting his elbows, he slowly pushed himself up from the wheel chair, his face grim with the realization of what was to come. A weapon was strapped to his back, one that even Roderick had not seen before. What appeared to be a folded staff was strapped to his back, while a thick, curved blade hung on his hip. Gehrman slowly pulled the blade from it's sheath, then with a quick motion, he slammed it behind his back. The trick weapons mechanic's shifted nosily, and as it extended, he knew he would meet his end here.

Gehrman now held a lengthy scythe, eldritch symbols edged into the face of the curved blade. Beneath Gehrmans hat sat hard, cold eyes. He spoke, loud enough for Roderick to hear, but more so to himself than anyone, "Tonight, Gehrman joins the hunt." The old man began stepping towards him. Threatened as Roderick was, he back stepped a few times, drawing the Chikage katana he had received for besting a Chalice Dungeon. In his free hand sat Ludwig's holy rifle, an elongated blunderbuss. Roderick seemed torn; he wanted to defend himself, yet he did not wish to possibly kill his one and only mentor. He would have never gotten the moment, for a flash caught his eye, and the blade descended upon him. Had he not the reflexes, he would have been done in then and there. But due to his being a hunter, he dashed backwards, leaving the first hunter to grumble under his breath. He would have to act now, lest he perish here. He darted forwards, swinging his blade in a downward arc, yet Gehrman side-stepped, slamming the butt of the pole into his gut with substantial speed and force. His eyes bulged as the breath was forced from his lungs. Stumbling backwards as he tried to gain his breath, Gehrman swung horizontally. Roderick would not be able to leave such an encounter unscathed, such as the origin of the deep gash in his side. He screamed out in pain, restraining himself from clutching the wound, lest he drop his weapons. He could feel his blood flow freely down his leather garb.

Gehrman continued to stroll towards him at a slow pace, the same grim expression plastered on the old mans visage. As he prepared to end Roderick's suffering, he rose the blade up high, but that would be the mans downfall. Roderick's blunderbuss roared in defiance, coating the hunter's chest in a spread of quicksilver pellets. Blood erupted from the multiple entries, and the old man moaned in pain. Having dropped to one knee, he wheezed from the damage sustained. Roderick took his chance, sprinting forward, he stabbed the tip of his blade in the dirt. Coiling his arm back, he shot it forth, stabbing his digits into the mans torso and gouging out a chunk of flesh. Such force threw Gehrman a few feet away, and as the trail of blood followed, he dropped the fleshy chunk. His crimson-soaked hand gripped the handle of his blade once more, and he pulled it from it's resting place. As the old man struggled to get up, Roderick tried his best to grasp the last bits of air he could. He inhaled deeply, trembling slightly with the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Gehrman was on his feet again, a pained look coming from his eyes. Perhaps from the wound, or at the resilience of Roderick? He could tell, only staring as the man raised the scythe. The entire weapon disappeared behind his back, his right hand gripping the end of the poll, and the other gripping it near the blade. Realization hit him too late, for the blade erupted from over Gehrman's shoulder, he barely missed as the blade cut into his leather garb. Yet, another came that he didn't see. The old man was fast for his age, for another horizontal swing came at blinding speed, cutting deep into his torso and throwing him off his feet. Roderick saw white for a moment before everything came into perspective, he had been injured badly, he could feel the cool wind stinging at the gash. It had been cut down to the bone and even then, the blade had bit into his sternum and a few of his ribs. He could feel his heart thumping hard, or perhaps he was hearing it, but he couldn't give up. He stumbled to his feet once more, his face looking a little pale...

Roderick and Gehrman fought for what seemed like eternity. Sure, Roderick had injured Gehrman substantially, but he was in far worse conditions. He was wheezing in any breath he could take. His plague mask had been broken, leaving his left eye and part of his face bare to the air. Multiple cuts and gashes donned his form. His garb had been utterly destroyed by the old man. He had trouble just breathing, so how was he going to win this? Gehrman was breathing heavily where he stood, the scarf once wrapped around his neck had been ripped in multiple places; a few cuts and one heavy gash adorned the old mans torso. He furrowed his brow, and Roderick had to blink to truly see what the man was doing. Some force had begun to converge around the man, some arcane presence that clutched to the old man, strengthening his body with the will of the heavens. Roderick was shocked utterly as he stared at the closing wounds of the man. Gehrman extended his arms and threw his head back, letting out a bestial roar that shook the very foundations of the Hunter's Dream. Roderick stumbled as the arcane force erupted all around, disintegrating the flowers around him and even shattering a cross that was unfortunate enough to be in its wake.

Roderick didn't even have time to blink before Gehrman had closed the gap. His breath hitched in his throat; his eyes widening in shock, then pain. He tried to speak, but all that came out was nothing but air. Blood dribbled out of his nostrils, and finally it hit him. He had been impaled. Gehrman stood before him, his blade upturn with the blade sticking firmly into Roderick's gut. Protruding from the other side was the very same blade, drooling his own life essence. Roderick sputtered out a glob of blood into his mask, his eyes tearing up as his final moments were approaching. He had so much to do, he hadn't wanted to die yet. He had met so many allies, perhaps even considering one a friend...He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, shout and throw a tantrum! Yet, the chill of death began creeping up his limbs. He weakly struggled, gripping the pole of the old man's weapon and trying to force it from his flesh. He was halted however by Gehrmans sorrow-filled voice, "Farewell, good hunter. May you find your worth in the waking world." Gehrman's Grey-green eyes stared into his own, and they showed traces of regret, sorrow, pain...He could tell Gehrman didn't want to do it, yet why did he in the first place? As he felt his body drop to his knees he prayed to what ever god sat in the stars to grant him a second chance, anything to rid himself the hollowness that was death. As his sight began to fade, he saw a lavender light emanate from his form; then he remembered nothing.