one thing in yharnam is known beyond all: in order to survive, a hunter’s senses must be impeccable. sharpened to the likeness of a knife’s edge, they all form into their protective veil: the wicked fate of those unstrung vultures is to drown in the lake formed both of blood and paranoia, asphyxiate underneath the weight of their repulsive stench. each step could, after all, bring death: each strange whimper could belong to a diseased beast, frenzied, tearing men apart limb by limb starved for the taste of their rotten meat.
however... there is a particular weight to these steps, an old song of featherlight grace --- maria cannot simply look past the way their sound instantly soothes her wrought nerves, calms the tremors of her hands. such a fool she is to welcome fondness into her heart! her very own, half-eaten scrap of a heart, shrouded now only by a thin layer of bloodstained silk. ( to think that until you i believed i’m all claw and tooth / how blind i must’ve been --- )
she stands up. a morbid grip of darkness overcomes her mind, if only for a second --- her body is failing, now mortalized, stripped of its only worth. “ welcome home, my darling dearest, ” it’s a low whisper, intimate above all. will a decorative smile be enough to hide the decaying mold of guilt growing over her brain? they share this grief, after all, don’t they? she draws near, closing the gap between them with haste. reaches out, gently placing her hand over 2b’s cheek, smeared with gore. disgusting... intoxicating. homelike.
there they stand: two women destroyed by their own visceral greed. in order to survive, a hunter must abandon all emotions other than their rancor: for what soft thing could ever close their mind to the suffering they cause, what lover could murder that of another? “ what a mess you’ve made of yourself tonight. haven’t you had enough? ”
