“We’re only as important as we allow ourselves to be”, Berith offered, though he was one to talk. Celestial heritage, knowledge of a dozen centuries, he wasn’t struggling to be seen, to play a bigger part in history. His demeanour had once led men to worship him as a god, and though his cult and devotees faded into insignificance, and his name was almost - almost - handed to oblivion, he was still important. Even more important than as the benevolent ‘god’ that he played, and more important than the obedient angel he had started out as. He was a puppeteer now. And how fitting he had found a literal doll to play with.
And yet, her guilessness was what made his game hard to win. Had he been too self-confident? Let himself be tricked into a feeling a touch of sympathy? Whatever it was, he had been careless and then the question pierced his very soul like a dagger through his chest. He flinched, visibly, and looked away for a moment.
“People sign contracts with desperation moving their hands, stupidity veiling their eyes or blatant greed clouding their judgement. Once a deal is closed, regret won’t declare it void again. Does failure to fulfil said contract make a lost soul? Or would only a lost soul sign up to repugnant conditions?” He paused. “I am a man of the law. Covenants are my duty. And so are their signees. Not all of them are lost souls, but I’ve seen enough in my line of work to know one.”
He leaned over to pluck a blossom from a thorny bush with no tell tale sign of pain. “Enough about me. I do tend to bore people speaking the language of law.” Absently grinding the petals between his thumb and middle finger, his gaze fixed the Doll once again: “Just know that though you got lost does not mean you cannot be found. Are you looking for being found? Perhaps by your… creator?”
If people signed contracts with Berith, then he sounded much like Yharnam’s blood ministers and hunters. What was that the Good Hunter had told her had been said to them by he who had overseen their Contract?
Good. All signed and sealed. Now let's begin the transfusion. Oh, don't you worry. Whatever happens... You may think it all a mere bad dream...
She recalled the recounted dialogue in her mind’s ears, which was followed by what they had described to her as a queer cackle. Then had come that Beast rising out of the Blood, a hallucination they guessed, only, its claws reaching out for them, it had seemed so real. It had seemed too real. And the fire that immolated it suddenly, that, too, had seemed too real, as had the embrace of myriad Messengers crawling upon and embracing them, transporting them to the Dream for the first time to meet her-- still seemingly a Doll, and not yet animated due to their noted lack of Insight. They knew not the world’s secrets yet at that time.
Was he something of the sort, one who made binding agreements? It would not be quite the same as a Hunter’s duty, but perhaps it was somewhat similar. The Doll lacked other comparisons with which to draw towards this gentleman. (Yes, to her, he was thus far a gentle man as well.)
The Doll stared at the flower he held in his hands. It had thorns. Should he not have been bleeding? There were few thorned plants in the Dream, but she knew of them, and of what caused humans pain. But this man, he was not human, was he? He was something else, something arcane. What? Had he told her? Ah, she could not recall.
“Gehrman...” she murmured, pressing her tightly-clasped hands to her chest, and chin to them. “He does not desire to see me again. He cannot find me if he does not seek me, nor desire me,” she reasoned. What was this in her eyes, clouding her vision, making it distort? Tears? And why did her voice sound strange when she spoke? Was this grief? Despair? “... I do not know what it is that I look for. I desire to be wanted, dear Berith.”
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