[playingwithblood]

Hunting for Trouble

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

playingwithblood:

“Do you now?” The shit-eating grin on the mental hunter’s face only grew at her conviction. While he had her stationary, Anders decided to size this hunter up.

The lass’s face looked as if it’d seen more than a few beasts splattered against the stones underfoot. Upon closer inspection of the stone hammer hoisted onto her back, he knew his assumptions were correct. He’d certainly took a chance with stopping this one, he thought. But he was determined to get his jollies somehow.

So, on with the scheme he went.

Staying alert, and still ready to retaliate, Anders lowered the blade to point at the hunter’s feet. “Well then, to be treading upon the lovely next level of this here ward”, his tone was playful as he continued explaining, “I’m afraid there’s a slight toll. Just a minuscule amount of…”, he paused, for dramatic effect, and to stop himself from chuckling. He then raised his other hand, lifting four of its fingers up, still holding the knife slightly in it, and adding one more with the other hand, “…5 pebbles. And pass you may.”

A toll??

Was he mad or just a fool? His accent — these foreigners! — did he really mean to interrupt the business of a Church official for a lark? Was he blind? No, he’d mentioned the beasts, and those blades were proof enough he’d not entirely renounced reality just yet. A dramatis personae then, a fearsome hunter with little regard for the citizens he forced into peril by keeping the Captain.

The leather of her gauntlet creaked, her grip subtly tightening on the hilt of her righteous blade. “I will pay you nothing,” Her voice belied her irritation, calm and even, as she might scold a child, “And you will move aside.”

Pebbles. Pfah!

“If you must play with rocks, might I suggest you find somewhere safer to do so. The Grand Cathedral is not far. Good night, Sir.” She took a single step forward, to invade his space and force him to move. He would get nothing from her and be grateful.

[playingwithblood]

Hunting for Trouble

@the-rapture-of-that-cruelty

Bored.

So unbearably bored. He needed something to do.

Anders twirled one of his blades between his fingers, letting the moon glint off the smooth surface and blind him a bit. ‘They might not be so blindingly clean if I had found something to slice open tonight.’ He thought, grimacing.

This wasn’t completely true, though. The Irish hunter had disposed of anything and everything that crossed into his path on his departure from his chosen hovel in this hellhole. Fast, easy kills. Ones where the blood just slid off his beloved siderite trick blades. As did his patience begin to slip away along with the normally viscous liquids. Watching townsfolk and church doctors die slowly from several hits of poison knives thrown from rooftops served no entertainment to him either, as didn’t common throwing knives quickly dispatching groups of carrion crows congressed in the rancid sewers below town.

Having these in mind, he suddenly remembered the few people he had encountered in the past few hours. The possessed brat and her puppy hunter guardian, a few blokes that sounded none like they belonged around here, but loved to fire any gun that was available, and that one who seemed to have a fancy for him, but he was keeping his distance from her.

He needed someone new. Someone new to pester. The thought of new and unexplored actions and encounters slowly grew into an unnerving grin on the brunette man’s face.

Anders took to his feet, rising from where he’d been previously lounging, on the rooftop of a random building in the cathedral ward. As like an animal would, he withdrew his face covering, pulling it down with a finger, raised his nose into the air, and inhaled deeply. Innate fear was easy to smell, but that wasn’t what he hungered to fuel the flames of. No, no. He wished to quell any sense of purpose, or confidence, anyone had in this night. Not for any real given reason only to see the light leave a poor, unsuspecting hunter’s eyes. Call it his simple joy in life.

The sound of footsteps found his ears and he turned his attention quickly to the bottom of a set of nearby stairs. “Who is this, per-say?” He whispered to himself. From the looks of them, they had only just arrived, and their stride held the air of a hunter closing in on their next batch of fresh prey. Perfect.

With ease, and just in time to get into the unknown hunter’s path, Anders jumped down from his perch and held out a single blade at them. “Well hello there, friend.” He greeted. “Beautiful night for killin’ beasts, isn’t it?”

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

Hunts during the full moon were particularly treacherous. Light poured between each alley and across every roof, leaving little hope of catching the beasts unawares.   The monsters were faster than any human could hope to be, and their awareness would be at its peak. No running from fights tonight…

Not that she did; no, her fear was entirely for her hunters, many of whom would fall on this eve. The curve to learn was steep, and any who trusted their tactics during the new moon would be bodies by morning. It was a grim reality that she had informed them all of at dusk, in a speech that fell deaf on the ears of the most eager. A lad who claimed he was eighteen but couldn’t have seen more than fifteen summers, a lass and her paramour to be wed in a fortnight…

She had to dig deep for her resolve, chasing away memories of their faces with thoughts of the city’s layout instead. With it so bright she had been forced to rely on walls and coffins to cloak herself, striking with a doctor’s precision with held breath each time. Only the quickest surveillance was possible, else she would draw the attention of a mob. Even her remarkable skills were no match when pitted against a horde.

Viscera and gore dripped from the steel hammer on her back, her righteous blade in hand. The steps ahead would lead her to a higher portion of the district, and hopefully fewer beasts to contend with. Tears in her cloak spoke of a beast she had let get too close, and at her left side her arm trembled vaguely from the residual impact of popping its skull against the concrete.

The interloper very nearly found himself run through.

The blade pointed at her was mirrored by her own, her right arm drawn back and upper body twisted oh-so-slightly for the maximum momentum she could summon for its thrust. Her shoulders relaxed, slightly, to realize it was a human being in front of her. She didn’t recognize him, and if he was a mugger, well… he’d certainly chosen a poor target.

“Move aside, Sir.” Another time she might have engaged his conversation, as etiquette dictated — but this was no time for it, poor form as it was. “I need to reach the upper ward.”

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

ghastlybeast:

“Speak critically of everyone, but Healing Church aren’t anyone’s benefactors. Selfish cunts who fucked up and hope no one notices. Got dumb fucks who don’t know shit singing their praises as they try to put out their own fire. Captain should know this,” he nodded towards her, clearly considering her one of the dumb fucks taken in by the lies of the Healing Church. Mishka didn’t consider her a hypocrite for the harsh, deadly stance against beasts. No, it was for the denial of the Church’s involvement in everything.

Mishka rolled forward on the ground into the decorative pots,  needing some sort of outlet for his energy; destroying pots worked well enough. The sound was loud and pleasing. He never did well being stuck in one place for long.

“Course I like how things turned out. Just don’t like the Church and their patsies.”

She wouldn’t let the beast see her sneer again. Her voice was cold, but unwavering; she might have chided a child with a similar tone; “Does it grant you peace of mind, having someone to fault?” Briefly she eyed the shards of pottery scattered, incense and ash spread like sands. With any luck the hunter had gotten some on him. What had been an unpleasant smell at first was now starting to turn her stomach.

It was popular for ruin to be ascribed to leaders, and not an uncooperative populace opposed to following structure and order. They’d cry when told what to do, and cry harder when not. An obedient child did not strike dogs; nor did he get bitten by them.

“So you are a hunter and opposed to the Church.” The irony was doubtless lost on him, but the corner of her mouth tipped upwards regardless. There was no such thing as a hunter without ties to the Church; he was a stray member of the mob turned out to the cold, and that was being generous (and cruel to the huntsmen). “Clearly you feel some loyalty for the city, though, else you wouldn’t be here?”

She nodded in the direction of the door, throat bared briefly from under her folded collar. She wasn’t foolish enough to leave it bared to the beast long. “The hinterlands are teeming with prey, I should think. Moreso than the city, at any rate.” He had mentioned being called upon, but nothing demanded he stay within these walls with his host strangely absent.

The skies grumbled loudly outside. It would be fantastic to watch the storm from the highest balconies of the workshop and for a moment a whimsical yearning captured her, drawing forth a soft sigh.

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

ghastlybeast:

“Course. Sure everyone is familiar with the janitors of the Church, trying to clean up the Church’s mess before it gets out of hand. Got out of hand,” that smug gaze only riled him up. She knew nothing of the horrors of the Church, nothing of the atrocities they’d committed. Mishka knew them firsthand, and to be looked down on because of the Church’s interference in his life grated and made him feel raw and expose. He hid it as well as he could, trying to hurt her using only words but his skill for wordplay had always been rather limited.

With her looking at that he was determined not to make the first move. Mishka was a hunter first, that’s what he told himself. Proving himself didn’t matter but he did have his pride. He wouldn’t prove the most beastly between them. Not until her back was turned and he could stab it. Sharp words weren’t as satisfying as sharp claws, blood spilt was on good if you could see the red coating the victim, but they’d do for a bit.  His look matched hers, a twisted reflection given that he couldn’t quite match that sneer with what was available to him. The wide variety of expressions a human face could make was lost to him, his own beastly features set in a perpetual scowl. No matter how gentle he tried to look, it would always be disagreeable. His personality didn’t help ease that sense of maliciousness.

“Don’t know many personally, but I’ve met enough in my hunts. Not much to differentiate them from each other. Ignorance masquerading as faith. Hypocrites, too. Bemoaning the beasts and the state of the world while only adding to its misery.”

She scoffed. It wasn't the first time she'd been called a hypocrite, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Words spat by cowards who paled at an assertive stance, begging mercy for the foxhound rabid in the chicken coop. She had witnessed firsthand the 'gratitude' rent when sympathy was shown. Shepherds did not balk at culling wolves. Not that he was an especially pleasant example of that. “You speak critically of your benefactors?” The Healing Church was struggling to stem the tide, but they were not to blame for the hubris of man. A fellow hunter had spoken to her on the ways of Byrgenwerth, lost and forbidden grounds now. Their conduct had challenged the order of man, and divinity. If the Church had formed sooner then perhaps... But, ah. It was not for her to contemplate. “Am I now to believe you don't enjoy the current state of affairs?”

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

ghastlybeast:

“Shitty hunter if so,” Mishka replied blithely. “Shouldn’t be running from beasts. Rather they just shoot at me. Normal reaction.”

It’d happened more than once, with increasing frequency as the world became more paranoid. That didn’t stop him from screaming and scaring the living daylights of ouf them. It was worth the momentary pain. She missed her mark if she’d hoped to hurt him in turn. Mishka was pleased to see his own jab had hit the mark. He was snickering at her response still. Oh, he’d noticed as the bodies stacked, as the coffins began to be placed openly on the street. Church Hunters unable to stem the tide, unable to clean up their own shit and now the whole city was drowning in it. Given her reaction, he was going to press it.

“No surprise you’d rather hunt alone, if you’ve gotten your subordinates killed. Isn’t the Captain supposed to make sure they’re ready before sending them to their deaths?”

So he had noticed the emblem. For as much as he played at being an idiot beast, all fur and no brain, Mishka wasn’t entirely stupid. He had more experience behind him than most, having been around since the earliest days before the Healing Church was even established. What he lacked in imagination he made up for in having lived through a variety of scenarios. Experience was the best teacher and he’d learned well. In some ways at least. In others he was willfully ignorant and had no desire to change this.  

One thing he’d certainly never learned was empathy, or when to keep his fucking mouth shut.

The thought of someone shooting at the thing haunting the chapel pleased her enough to snuff her budding rage. The tightness in her chest released, and she could breathe again. They had been here all of ten minutes, by her estimate, and the storm showed little inclination towards a haste departure – if things didn't improve blood would be shed. This hideous deformity wasn't deserving of her time, but if suffering him was unavoidable then she would seize this chance to better resist the call of the blood. It stung, of course – maybe more because the wound had just been picked – when he insinuated again her failings. Would she be remiss to cut his throat, when the sun did dare its gaze on Yharnam once more? These were puerile antics, she told herself, warped because of teeth and rain but trivial just the same. Such accusations should mean even less from a fiend who openly mocked those who asked his aid. Genuine talk of her inner demons could wait for confessional. Hands folding before her navel, she smiled. “So you are familiar with the Healing Church's hunters, Sir?” She eyed him slowly, in a gaze far removed from that of a predator sizing up prey – no, this was more like the look of a wealthy noble, disdainful for having been forced to confront a poor beggar sprawled in the streets, too good (rich) to let the serpent smile fade.

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

ghastlybeast:

“Not at all,” he certainly hadn’t lost his footing. As if to prove a point he reached out deliberately with his unarmed hand and wrapped it firmly around another. And then he lifted it easily and threw it across the room. It smashed into the decorative pots, smashing them easily and making a racket that was only drowned out by the wind and thunder  Mishka was quite pleased by the result. He always did like making loud noises, though usually they were from his own throat. It was a show of strength as well. He’d lifted it with one hand as though it were nothing.

“You’d rather it drown than have to fight it? Some hunter,” he scoffed, disliking how she spoke. Being looked down on was one way to put him in a bad mood. They were both hunters, just because she allied herself with the shitstain that was the Church didn’t mean she could consider herself superior.  While he was more beast than man, in everything from looks to personality, he considered himself a hunter first. He had a hunter’s weapon after all, wore hunter’s runes. “Little bitch shivering in her boots.”

He cocked his head, as though thoughtful, “don’t you usually travel in groups? What, got the rest of your cooperators killed?”

The way he said it was so dismissive, as if he’d never gotten his beckoner or cooperator killed. In reality he’d lost count of how many had died because of him. When he did it though, it was usually on purpose.

Base insults against her courage meant nothing. Rare for a woman of the Church, perhaps, but this wasn't a job that could be survived without a bold nature. Was that truly the extent of his wit? School girls had sharper barbs. The blame was all on her, of course, for assuming him capable of any verbal spar; could she honestly expect better from a roustabout barely sentient enough to dress himself, oh so desperate to display his bravura? It was a pity she spoke with him at all, the dullard's brain was sure to be well taxed by now. A sliver of mercy and silent prayer for the furred fool was in order, and she almost spoke a silent orison on his behalf. But oh, that cut against her warding was deep. Deeper than he could possibly know. To dare accuse the blade of the Church of--! “No,” She snarled, and immediately regretted it. With a loud huff she tried to smooth her jacket – not that the soaked garment needed it. It took several moments more to regain herself, long enough to hear the rain pelting the stones and imagine how grotesquely pleased the hunter must be with himself. The smug bastard. “I hunt better alone.” Even an oblivious hunter such as him had to have noticed the decrease in patrols, the festering corners where bodies were abandoned for lack of manpower to clean the streets. She had witnessed too many recruits' deaths lately, maimed because they were too slow, or too fast, weapons becoming weights around their ankles. Had the great Captain Ludwig felt this sorrow, in his day? Felt a bitter sense of betrayal, for not being able to protect his apprentices? “...Are you very certain your beckoner didn't simply glimpse you and choose to court the rain instead?” Her voice had resumed its level tone, though she failed to smile, even falsely. A bearing of teeth would be a call to battle.

[sexlessrpmemes]

Reblog this if I have permission to come into your askbox IC at any point if my muse has a question for yours.

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

ghastlybeast:

He shrugged. Coming to a stop in front of her when she didn’t move he looked her over. It wasn’t a friendly look, more like sizing up potential prey.  “Whatever I come across. Some asshole rang the bell, never found ‘em. I’ll have to make my own hunt. And you?”

Overall it didn’t matter to him if she moved out of the way or not. He simply stepped around once it was clear she’d stand her ground. His fur brushed against her, and one malformed eye kept on her weapon at all times. The kirkhammer was a slower weapon, he’d have plenty of time to move if her tolerance waned.  He sneezed again with a growl. The scent of incense was even stronger and in a fit of petulance he knocked over one of the tall candelabra, sending it crashing to the ground and stamping out one of the holy candles. No more of that cursed scent from that one, though it wouldn’t be enough to lessen what was already there. Given that she’d just introduced herself as captain, either he didn’t care or he was purposely trying to get a rise out of her.  “These candles reek.”

Sometimes he forgot that people didn’t have quite the same sensitivities as himself. The incense left beasts lightheaded and feeling ill, and in that respect he was no different from them. That he himself likely smelled just as foul in his own way was lost on him.

She'd felt no fear when the hunter challenged nor brushed past her – she'd been in the company of far greater monsters – and his tantrum only stiffened her confidence. Civility and politics carried more danger than braying hounds; there'd be no knives to the back from this one. No, if the candle's sorry to state was anything to go by, he would expose himself long in advance of any genuine threat. With a wry smile she inquired; “Lost your footing there, friend?” Confident she could react in time with this distance, she set her blade back within its holy tomb and bent down to scoop up her hat. It was recovered with exaggerated grace – in intentional mockery of his own clumsy row with the candlestick. When Henriett drew back up to her full height her smile was gone; she inhaled deeply through her nose. Her voice held firm in its amused superiority;“Reek? I suppose I wouldn't know.” Oh, but she did know. It wasn't a disagreeable odor – it became especially sweet in the depths of the forbidden labyrinth – but it was a heavy, insistent smell that stagnated in the air like cigar smoke in a parlor. For a girl raised as much in the city as country estates, its presence was oft overbearing. Yet, it brought to mind the Vicar, and for that she could forgive – even love – the queer scent. (An embroidered cloth in her breast pocket was particularly pungent, in fact.) But, lo! It seemed his claims about summoning, at least, were not so dubious. His claws (and teeth) had demanded her attention prior, but less riled she noted now the bells he bore. There seemed little harm in humoring his claims of being a hunter, then. Some jolly cooperation between a domestic and a feral – it was far from the strangest allegiance in Yharnam. What else was there to do whilst the storm rattled on? “The Church received reports of a 'great black cat' predating the bridge, and requests to deal with it. Seems the rain frightened it off before I arrived; with any luck its found a hole to drown in.”

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

ghastlybeast:

Wet and miserable, Mishka just growled lowly. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to have a conversation of any sort. The look on her face as she tried to reconcile his nature did little to assuage these feelings. He delighted in being confusing, liked to consider himself a proper conundrum to those he met. 

“Not a sir. Mishka. Name’s Mishka. Not one of your proper, uptight Church Hunters, now am I? Got more sense than running around with that lot,” now he was just purposely trying to be an asshole. Insulting the Church was somewhat of a stab in the dark, but most of Yharnam held such high opinions it was usually a safe bet. “And who the fuck are you? That’s a big weapon for a little bitch.”

Again he sneezed as he shook himself off. The incense bothered him far more than the cold water, but not enough that he was willing to leave shelter. Instead he sauntered forward to get away from the doorway and the howling storm.

Henriett's hand squeezed more firmly on her wrist. Who was this fiend to insult the Church? Here, cowering from a storm, safe by but the Gods' own good graces? She could tolerate a difference in faith, and had been denigrated personally to no foul, but mockery of the Church begged righting. Were it any other door he soiled she would demand recompense; a duel, or else apology, and oh the lust for the former. But to bleed him here, now, would sour the wound. Justice without precision was even more grave an insult, both to the Vicar and her personal honour. “I am the Captain of those proper, 'uptight' Church Hunters,” Her voice drawled but she managed a tight smile, “Sir.” She resisted the urge to step aside; if he wanted her to move he could dig deep for manners – even hounds behaved when commanded. Else he could skulk around her, deeper into the chapel. As for giving him her name, well, she was just fine being called Captain. Her name wasn't unknown, but if the blessed kirkhammer did not mark her as church-aligned what hope was there of him knowing her name? (She would grant him that small benefit of doubt; that he did not mock the church knowingly to one of its blades). “What were you out hunting?” A cold, obviously.

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

Character Evaluation Tag

Tagged by: @ghastlybeast Tagging: Anyone that sees it and hasn’t done it yet. Take the test HERE Please repost instead of reblogging! (Let me know if you do it!) Tenderness You are not afraid of the sufferings and sorrows of other people, even when they are acted out in unappealing ways. Beneath even defensiveness and self-righteous behaviour, you know that deep down people need nurturing and consolation. One danger is being naive about people’s dark sides. But at your best you know you can be mean yourself, which helps you to sympathise. You bring strength and forgiveness where other people might panic.

Reverence One part of you dreams of giving yourself up – perhaps just for a while – to a hero or mentor. In the right circumstances you can flourish by letting go of your ego. In your inner life, reverence plays out as a willing submission to your own conscience. In the outside world, you might get frustrated searching for something worth believing in – a country, a person, a company – but you will always be open to feeling respect, admiration and wonder. Resilience You have a tendency, after a setback, to turn your emotions towards restriving. What attracts you is the idea of wiping out a humiliation by resumed action – overcoming weakness, repressing your fear. Because part of your motive is pride, you can sometimes be unwilling to admit weakness or to receive aid. But at heart, tour insistence on coming back and never folding has taught you a valuable pessimism: you know that important journeys are never easy.

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

ghastlybeast:

“Oh fuck off, ya cunt,” Mishka growled. The incense was giving him a headache and he didnt’ needs some dumb fucking hunter to come and harass him now. If he insulted her enough maybe she’d just go away. His hackles rose as he puffed himself up to look bigger. It didn’t work quite as well as he’d like, since hi fur was heavy with rain, dripping into a puddle where he stood. His fur didn’t retain water well at least, so he’d soon be dry. Until then he’d be quite miserable. “Only blood here is going to be yours if you don’t.” He didn’t let it go at that. Mishka enjoyed messing with others far too much to leave it there. “Just self-defense. If you’re too drunk on blood to recognize a fellow hunter.” It was an easy mistake to make, and it happened more often than not. He acted far more like a beast than a man, and often reveled in his own wild nature. But he wasn’t about to let some bitch think she had one over him.

She flinched as though struck, the grip on her sword lessening.

What blasphemy was this?

He couldn't – it couldn't – could it? The mantle of hunter did not agree with so grotesque a sight (to fit its vulgar mouth!), and yet there was merit there, a sentience, a mind that was present enough for doubt to latch its claws in her belly.

She narrowed her eyes, but after a slow exhale let her arm drop, sword swinging to a stop at her side. "A hunter, you say? And yet I do not recall your voice." The dark was thick in this little chapel, even with incense and the scattered candles. But her voice was smooth, and firm, the blow to her composure fast righted.

Yet, she would not approach. She knew well not to draw near any whose features she couldn't cleanly distinguish, hunter or no. The Church did employ the foul, when necessary, and it was not her place to question Her Holiness. If it – he, she corrected herself, had been christened a hunter, then she would trust the wisdom of the Vicar.

But that need not extend to the denial of sense.

The sword was returned to its stone, and then her hands were folded before her navel, left hand holding to her right wrist. A thousand questions came to mind, few befitting a woman of character. With the finest of politesse, she asked; "What be your name, sir?"

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

( @ghastlybeast​ continued from this ask)

There was no sense hunting during a storm. Henriett swiped her hand over the top of her hat once more, knocking water to the steadily growing pool at her feet. Outside the city was so black its existence existed by faith alone. Rain was not uncommon for Yarnham, so near to water as it was, but the storms – the true storms – left even the hardiest Yharnamite indoors. Any beasts were certain to have already gone to ground, and the calamitous triad of wind, rain and darkness disguised well the trails. She would not have been here, either, if not for being caught by surprise, and then the chapel being closest. She had no obligation to patrol whilst most were safely inside. ...Most. Between rumbles of thunder was the rare ring of a bedlamite, oblivious in their rambles and rambling. Many would meet their end in a flooded aqueduct, often for lost footing above, some dying at the climax of a high plunge but far more -- too many more -- instead crippled, and drowned. It wasn't her business, but she reached out to those she could. Lightning burst from outside, briefly illuminating the little chapel. When she blinked the whiteness away there was a figure. Some thing not quite human, shaking like a wolf in the tiny sanctuary. She grit her teeth as their stares met. A thrill pounded in her blood. Henriett dropped her hat to the floor, and in the same motion drew her sword. Any hope of surprising the trespasser was long forfeit. "Away with you, beast; if you've any sense." The blade's tip was leveled with his furred throat, from a gulf of several feet. If even the most base of animal cunning rattled in that skull, her intent would be understood. "I would not have blood spilled on these sacred grounds."

[hunter-of-hunters-deactivated20]

[bloodborne-roleplayers]

After a very long time in the making, I’d like to announce a masterlist for all Bloodborne Roleplaying blogs! And when we say all, we mean ALL! So as long as you’re an RP blog for Bloodborne, you’re included. OCs also qualify!

To be added, REBLOG this post, or submit yourself! Our rules and F.A.Q.

We also reblog various resources and lore!

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

Roleplay/Ask Blog for Old Hunter Henriett/Cleric Beast, of Bloodborne! Rules | About | Tags (Multiverse, Multiship, Semi-Selective) Ind. | NSFW Warning

[old-sword-hunter-blog]

Of Beasts and Men

(Sample roleplay post/intro.)

The captain's eyes narrowed, fists balling at her sides. What madness was this?

This town is long abandoned. Hunters not wanted here.

She fought the urge to rip the note from its post, barely. What a hero the Grey Wolf was, defending villains that poached upon the living. A violent nature that had been growing in intensity prayed he was ripped apart, his viscera left steaming amidst the countless crucifix pyres. Let him cry for mercy then, as fleeing children surely had, witness the beasts' supposed humanity as he was chewed to bone and gristle.

Sharply she turned, mounting the stone steps two at a time. It had been naive to hope all the inhabitants were at rest, but perhaps the beasts were even more resilient than they'd known, demanding of another purge. A note declaring the town out of bounds was not the sort of brazen act done on behalf of a few fugitives that might be concealed in a single house.

Someone would need to deal with this issue, and it would almost certainly be expected of her; she huffed a frustrated sigh. She would let it alone for now, trust in the barrier, however flimsy it seemed. After they had driven out the scourge in central Yharnam she would hold a meeting with any hunters that could be rallied.

She stepped out into the church, and gestured to a fellow church member stood on the upper tier; obediently he heaved a lever, forcing the stone sarcophagus back into rumbling place. She bowed in gratitude and stepped out the building, to come up and around its side. Some of the recent looks from townsfolk had left her uneasy, and while she would fight to the death to protect them, it was... nice to be away from those accusatory glances, at the moment.

The previous outrage ebbed from her as she crossed the church's upper floor. The sunlight beckoned like a lover from across the way; she could not deny such an innocent temptation.

"Brother Alfred," she smiled as the blond turned, and stepped out to the shrine of the Executioners. It was a small, but tidy place, unlike the chaotic sprawl engulfing the rest of the city. Even the Cathedral Ward had grown guilty of it, as late. "I might have known I'd find you here." She clasped both hands before her navel and bowed.

There were few in the city she could be frank with; most were either her superior or junior, both with their own unique demands. Alfred occupied a unique niche, being of the Executioners and around her age. Their prey was different, but their character was of the same cloth.

Their paths did not cross nearly as often as she might have liked. "You have kept his altar well. Might I join you in prayer?"