Fuck What The Prophecy Said

Nick had always been a friend of hers, his cheerful disposition a welcome reprieve from both her own solitude and Sharky’s almost suicidal enthusiasm for anything willing to catch fire. Kim balanced him, and quickly became a friend of hers in turn, offering a firm hand on her arm and an uplifting word when she needed it….But it wasn’t needed now, so the two were in a heated discussion in the kitchen about whether or not raisin’s belonged in potato salad. Abigail herself sat comfortably on the railing of the porch, gently plucking away at the guitar Nick had bought, insisting he was going to learn to surprise Kim. Unfortunately, his fingers possessed limited dexterity and he sang like a wailing cat, but Kim was still touched by the sentiment, even though she made him promise to never pick up the instrument again.

Shielded from the daylight, Abigail spun out a soft tune, plucking at the strings and watching their minute vibrations as her hair fell into her face, catching the rays of sunlight revealing streaks that seemed to be of spun gold.

“Having fun?” She looked up to see Grace, Grace Armstrong, the face plastered in stoic expression’s across the county now soft and warm, glowing in the daylight. She wore a loose t-shirt, advertising one of her sponsors, a free gift, most likely, and light wash jeans, faded and worn, loose and accommodating . Her hair was tied low in a loose bun, small wisps framing her face as she smiled softly at Abigail, who couldn’t help but smile back in response.

“Yeah, but if you ask me to play ‘Freebird’ I’m chasing you across the property.” Grace chuckled at that, leaning against the porch entrance and raising her beer to her lips.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Abi. I know you’ve got a mean arm, and you know I’m better at a distance.” The older woman replied.

“Could shoot the fly off a horse’s ass at fifty yards.” Mr. Armstrong came sauntering out of the kitchen, a smile that Abigail only knew as comforting rising to his face. He put his arm proudly around his daughters shoulders and gave her a gentle jostle.

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, old man.” Grace tried to sound tough, but couldn’t hide the smile that peaked out above the lip of her beer.

The three of them looked out at the already large crowd of people gathered on the Rye’s rather expansive property, they made out Hurk Jr. trying to pull his father away from a rather heated argument at the bar.

“Is Hurk Sr. at it again?” Kim had emerged from the kitchen, hands on her hips and an exasperated look on her face. “Don’t know why he even comes,”

“Or why you even keep inviting him.” Grace chimed in, taking a long sip of her beer.

“Aw, come on now, Grace. It’s open invite. Anyone can come so long as they bring something.” Nick had now emerged from the kitchen, standing in the doorway, slinging his arms around his wife, planting a kiss atop her head.

“Does that include a bad attitude?” Kim replied, crossing her arms and Nick laughed behind her.

Grace squinted, lowering her beer.

“Oh, hell no.” She muttered, her gaze focused on an area up the drive.

Abigail followed her gaze to a sleek, black, pickup truck. Newer and nicer than any of the beat up work trucks already parked on the Rye property. The windows were tinted, blocking any view of the interior, but Abigail knew there was only one probable occupant of a truck that nice.

“Don’t tell me-” Mr. Armstrong muttered, his once soft gaze now turning steely.

He had no chance to finish his sentence before the penultimate bastard himself emerged from the car. John Seed, hair slicked back, pulling his sunglasses off his eyes to rest atop his head- stepped out of the car in one fluid motion, looking every bit the smug lawboy asshole he was known to be. He was dressed in his typical ensemble, a dress shirt with the top few buttons opened, a tantalizing sight for women with no standards and men willing to make terrible decisions, she was sure. From the other side of the car his brother, The Father, stepped into the light and out of the shade of the car. His glasses remained on his face, and he was dressed more modestly than his brother, not that it was difficult. A plain white linen shirt and a black vest, adorned with a small embroidered mark of the project. He held something in his hands, wrapped in foil.

“Oh great, who invited the loons?” Grace muttered.

“Well it’s open invite…” Nick muttered sheepishly, earning a well placed elbow from his wife.

Abigail squinted, the two back doors swung open as well, and from the passengers side emerged….what was quite possibly the prettiest woman she had ever seen. She’d only heard about her, Faith Seed, with her golden hair and delicate gait. The blonde woman stepped out of the car, her light yellow dress drifting in the breeze, the sunlight catching on the wisps of her hair. Abigail hadn’t realized she was gawking until Faith’s gaze caught her own, her fine features brightening into a smile as Abigail quickly shifted her gaze away. She peered over the top of the car to see who was emerging from the other side…

To see a man that dwarfed all of his siblings, an absolute wall of a man, face marred with burns and scars. He sauntered around the front of the car after his brothers, opting for a flannel with the sleeves rolled up, a shirt underneath, and jeans probably more accustomed to work than family outings.

‘He looks like the poster child of reclusive mountain men…’ Abigail thought to herself, gently plucking a small hymn on the guitar as she continued to observe the imposing figure who carried himself equal parts casually, and like he was ready to spring to action and bolt at any moment. His gait was straight, not a swaying saunter like John, whose body language was full of bravado and sweeping motions, nor was it calm, composed like Joseph’s, whose every motion seem dripped in the same strange otherworldliness she imagined fair folk possessed in children’s stories. No, his walk was organized, shoulders balanced, no overeager lean forward that many people used to seem empathetic and overeager. He walked with the similarity of a predator surveying new territory, both anxious and sure of itself. She caught his gaze as he slightly turned his head to survey the gaggle of people now trying to discreetly look at the newcomers.

Abigail took note of the...knife. Yes, a knife- strapped to his thigh. It was a hunting knife, not unlike those used to skin deer. An object most everybody in Hope County owned, but generally didn’t bring to a cookout. Around his neck there were...a paw of some kind, what looked like a whistle or a charm, and dog tags.

‘That explains the way he walks,’ She thought to herself, her gaze trailing upwards….right into his almost annoyingly blue eyes. He was looking at her, but looking was probably too light of a word to use. Staring would probably be a better descriptor. Had he seen her sizing him up?

Their eyes locked, and the large man cocked an eyebrow, and she swore from beneath his beard she could sense the faintest trace of a smile. She cocked her own brow in response, which prompted him to tilt his head in the convergence right beside them.

Brought back down to the situation at hand, Abigail was quickly drawn into the conversation by the theatric tones of John’s voice as him and ‘The Father’ stepped up onto the porch.

“Ahhh, Nick, how lovely it is to see you! Kim, you’re looking as radiant as ever.” John had a smile made for television, and what made him insufferable was the fact that he knew it. Nick sheepishly scratched his beard and Kim grimaced, making no secret of her disdain.

“Thanks.” The short woman responded flatly, her eyes flicking between the two brothers now standing on her porch, now flanked by the Armstrong’s. “You here for the cookout?”

“Ah, yes-” John started, but as his brother stepped forward he quickly grew silent.

“We were hoping to partake in the festivities,” Joseph’s voice was soft, melodic, almost calming if not for the occasionally alarming things he said. “We’ve brought a dish. Though, I confess, neither me nor my brothers are known to be cooks. Forgive me if it is lacking.” He held out the wrapped offering for Kim to take, but it was Nick’s quick hands that took it, both men bobbing their heads in Southern politeness before Nick escaped back into the kitchen- leaving his wife under the capable protection of Abigail and the Armstrong’s.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence after Nick disappeared, Abigail not moving from her seat, and neither of the Armstrong’s budging an inch, both stone straight. Kim shifted her weight from one hip to the other, and Abigail could sense Joseph eyeing each and every one of them from behind his glasses. His gaze stopped on her.

‘Oh, fucking fuck,’

He tilted his head. “Will you be playing for us this evening?”

All eyes were on her now. ALL of them. The Armstrong’s, The Seed’s, even Kim had stopped glaring at John to look at her. Abigail wanted to crawl under the porch and not leave until everyone was gone and the Rye’s had gone to bed. But she met Joseph’s gaze, pulling one, last, uneasy chord.

“On and off, I suppose. Or until someone starts throwing tomatoes at me. People here can be philistines.” She attempted to joke. With ‘The Father’. The guy who led the cult next door. She tried to joke with Joseph Fucking Seed. Fuck. What the fuck? Why did she do that? No one was laughing. She wanted to die. Shit. Shit!

A beat. Two beats.

And then, Joseph Seed actually smiled, a small, almost unnoticeable smile, and from behind the glint of his glasses she couldn’t tell if it was the grim ‘I’m going to kill you for this slight’ smile, or a ‘You have amused me mortal child’ smile.

“I do hope you play for us, Ms. Prince.” He knew her name. How did he know her name? Not like she was a hermit, but the fact that she was enough of a blip on Joseph Seed’s radar for him to know her name left a cold pit in her stomach. “And I’m sure Jacob wouldn’t let that happen, my brother is quite the fan of music.”

Abigail merely smiled and nodded, and after another insufferably long moment of silence, he turned off the porch. She caught John looking at her with the same sickening fixation he had pinned on an unfortunate group of Hope County’s female population, before following after his brother. Faith had already gone off to socialize, and ‘Jacob’ strayed away from the crowds and had instead gone to observe Nick’s airfield, now adorned with games and obstacles.

Abigail, and, unsurprisingly, let out a breath they didn’t realize they’d been holding and looked at each other with expressions that ranged from ‘well that could have been worse’ to ‘I would rather have been forced to listen to one of Zip Kupka’s rants while being set on fire’.

“Well that….happened.” Grace broke the silence as Kim dropped her arms and let out a sigh.

“Looks like The Seed’s have an eye on you, Abigail- or at least Joseph.” Mr. Armstrong looked at her with a sympathetic gaze.

“I’d think that’d be the worst one to be fixin’ to have an eye on you.” Nick emerged from the doorway.

“I don’t know, I’d say John would be the worst. From what Mary May’s told me, at least.” Kim responded, elbowing her husband gently.

“I’d be more concerned about their big brother Jacob. He was military, and the training alongside his brothers’ fanaticism can’t lead to anything good.” Grace stared out across the property, still stock straight until her father patted a hand on her shoulder, all tension leaving her body at that simple, paternal gesture.

“Gracey, you get yourself way too worked up. You’re home now, not in Afghanistan.” Mr. Armstrong's soft voice seemed to relax as daughter, and she took a deep breath.

Exhale.

“...Yeah.” Grace responded, looking at Abigail. “Still, don’t need to tell you to be careful, do I, Ab?” A small, knowing smile crossed her lips, and a similar one came to Abigail’s face as well- a tired, wry, but knowing smile.

'Fear the snatchers,' She had cried. 'They seek to get inside your head, take your eyes, take your eyes so you'll see. Take you to their Unseen Village, never to be heard again.' The woman started barking soon after. A wolvish, grating sound that had probably torn her throat apart by now. 

She didn't let the thought bother her; all of the city was probably mad by now. The Old Blood had twisted them in that way; the Church's most 'sacred' old blood. That damnable choir and their despicable Vicar's; who had marched upon Cainhurst with their Executioners. Clad in their bleached burlap robes, armed with hammers and glowing swords they had slaughtered everyone in the castle. Everyone. The lords, the ladies, the servants, the knights- even the children. All except for one, the one who could not be killed, the one who she was now journeying to rescue; the Vileblood Queen Annalise. Her lady, her sweet queen, trapped in the innermost sanctum of Cainhurst, held captive by the leader of those damnable executioners. 'Logarius', she had heard his name said in hushed whispers amongst the Church clergy. The despicable, withered bat who barred the way to her throne room. All she'd have to do is kill him, then she could set her lady free. 

Keen eyes cast their gaze down upon the crumpled, bloodied summons that she had fought so hard to retrieve. It was addressed to her, from the Queen herself. Her lady knew she was meant to be her savior, she had always known it was her worthy of being her champion. She pressed the envelope close to her chest, inhaling the light scent of her Queen's blood that had not quite faded from the parchment. 

She had allowed herself to be taken, 'snatched' by one of those beastly lurkers that roam the streets of Cathedral ward in search of new victims. She had played stupid, garbed herself in the common rags of the Yharnamites, screamed and begged for help. The oafish thing had bludgeoned her into near unconsciousness with that lumpy sack it had over its shoulder. When she finally lay limp on the ground, it had hoisted her up by the back of her neck, tossing her into its putrid sack, dragging her off to the unseen village. She had been conscious enough to remember the stink of the burlap, and the disgusting moistness of it. 

She shuddered at the memory, the stinking jail cell where they had left her to rot. But, she had found what she went there for. Deep within the dank dungeons of Yahargul, it laid there as if patiently waiting for her. At first she thought it was merely a fever dream, a hallucination of her addled and jostled brain. But when she laid her fingers upon oh she knew it was real. Tangible. Just for her. From there, she knew where she needed to go. Hemwick Charnel Lane, cutting through it was easy. She knew the bridge had been destroyed since Logarius and his wretched executioners had led an expedition to cross it to slaughter the denezins of Cainhurst, she knew how the Vilebloods had blown out the bridge to give their people time to organize, she knew how many executioners lay at the bottom of those icy waters. What she didn't know, were how the mystical workings of Queen Annalise had survived to grant her passage. At first she'd thought it a beast, it's cloven hooves trotting along to trample her. She had grabbed her Chikage, clutching the summons to her chest, facing the mist ready to cut down whatever leapt out at her. 

Only it was not a foe, but a carriage, bearing the distinct adornments of the Vilebloods. There was no one controlling the two ghastly horses that pulled it, but it somehow stopped right before her, its door opening as if to say 'Let us take you home.' She had almost teared up; this was the moment, the chance she had been waiting for; and she knew then, as she knows now, where she was going, for whatever reason, she was not coming back.

'But beware, the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young. The foul beasts will dangle nectar and lure the meek into the depths. Remain wary of the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young. Were it not for fear, death would go unlamented.' 

Luthran had clasped his hands together, kneeling in prayer within the rocking, uncertain carriage. 

'There are sharks within these blood tainted waters. I shall not fall prey to them. Not now...' Not ever, he wished to finish. But this would be the ultimate test of his faith, which also promised to bear the ultimate reward. Yes, if he were to cripple the queen of the accursed vilebloods where she sat, turning her throne into a death bed; he could truly become a hero of the church, as he had always wanted. 

Yes, the life of a church hunter had been rewarding enough, saving the innocent and protecting the clergy from the foul beasts that patrolled cathedral ward. But now the entire city of Yharnam had been shoved behind doors, into churches, and if he had even been making a difference, it remained to be seen. It was the Choirs sacred duty to hunt the beasts the plague had created; an Executioner had no place among him, and that is what he had truly been trained to be. They called him in to hunt the large beasts, the monsters that slogged through the filthy, blood riddled streets of Yharnam. But other than that, he was left to his prayers, useless in his rarity. All the other executioners had long since left for their real mission, to purge the forsaken Castle Cainhurst of the accursed Vilebloods. However, he had been far too young to join the initial crusade against Cainhurst; merely a boy trying to swing a hammer far too large for him. But now he was a man, strong, broad shouldered, with tousled hair and shining eyes. The very picture of a member of the healing church. 

The moment he had realized that now was the time for him to sieze his destiny was the moment a church hunter, garbed in their signature sterile white robe had approached him without a word as he prayed in the Grand Cathedral. He heard the controlled clicking of their boots on the marble floor. 

"Brother Luthran," They had said concisely. "I believe this is meant for you." They had bowed in the manner of the church, their face not visible behind their attire. He stood, turning to look at them. They were petite, yet tall, and not a speck of blood lay upon their clothes. He would've assumed they had simply not been out on the hunt, if not for the bloodied threaded cane that they held tightly in their hand. 

"What's this?" He responded, taking the intricate envelope gently from their hand.

  "A summons, Brother Luthran." The church hunter responded, not releasing their bow. "Or should I say Executioner Luthran." His eyebrows raised instantly. "A summons from the forsaken Castle Cainhurst." And even though they were bent in a respectful bow, he could have sworn he saw the most wicked of smiles upon their face. 

Stepping out of the shadowy carriage, the Vileblood Knight felt her breath leave her chest. The Forsaken Castle Cainhurst, her home, however abandoned, was still magnificent. Sure, the squalor that had been forced upon it by years of abandoned decay after the siege of those filthy executioners, had done nothing for its stained glass windows, and elegantly crafted statues; but it was still one of the most breathtaking sights in Yharnam, filthy city that it was. Her feet elegantly and softly tapped onto the ground, disturbing a coating of snow that had probably not been touched since the original attack of the executioners. She looked behind her, to where her carriage just was; only to find it now it squalor; the horses that pulled it long dead. It sent a chill through her; what kind of magic had her Lady Queen Annalise used to pull her to this place? What secrets of old Castle Cainhurst lay forgotten in the snow? 

She figured it best not to think about it. 

She instead turned back to the gate; with its beautiful, ornate silver bars, intimidating size and domineering thickness; ah yes, it truly was a lovely, master crafted, beautifully closed gate. How in the name of the gods was she even supposed to get in? Unless she was the size of a cat she couldn't very well squeeze through. 

No matter, she thought, she would find a way. She hadn't come this far just to give up. So, sword clutched in hand, and pistol at her side, she climbed the many steps up to the Cainhurst gate. She supposed she could climb, and perhaps fall to her death- or maybe there was another way around? But the area was in the thick of an endless blizzard, and unless she fancied herself to wind up a popsickle, she figured she shouldn't go venturing around alone outside the castle walls. It was hard to even maintain the most basic of footing on the icy steps, and she wondered what liquid lay frozen beneath her feet; water, or blood? It was a morbid thought, one the knight quickly tried to push from her mind. 

'These were my brothers,' She thought. 'All of them sundered under the weight of an executioners wheel.' She gripped her sword even tighter than before, her knuckles turning white beneath her gloves. She would make them pay, her and her Queen Annalise.  

She was now merely a few feet from the great steel gate, and was now coming to terms with the fact that she must choose between her potential fate as a pancake or a popsickle- when the most peculiar thing happened. It opened. 

The silverite prongs of the gate rose from the ground, the castle opening its icy maw as if to say 'enter'. The knight stood in awe as the castle invited her inside. 'Welcome home, Vileblood. We have been expecting you.'  

The young Knight's lips parted, looking up at the now opened gate, with tears stinging in her eyes. 

She was here. She was finally home. 

--

  She couldn't let herself be overwrought with emotion so early in her journey, she needed to press on. She had no idea what potential dangers awaited her within the forgotten den of her people. Rogue executioners? Terrible beasts? Brigands? Werewolves? They would all be met with the sharp edge of her Chikage. 

Walking inside she couldn't help but admire the abandoned statues that littered the courtyard. They were of kings, lords, ladies, nubile women in the poses of the old masters; the picture of opulence and luxury. Truly magnificent. 

She heard a hiss. 

She whipped her sword out, turning to see the source of the noise.   From over the snowy cliff, it began to crawl towards her. Whatever 'it' was. It was gaunt, with long limbs and what looked like a vile, elongated tongue spewing from its mouth. It had a sack dangling from its stomach that seemed to be full of liquid- Gods, was that blood? 

No matter. She had fought fiercer beasts than this putrid thing. 

She readied herself, staring down the beast, strafing her walk to circle around it- but damn it was fast. In the blink of an eye it was upon her, lunging for her with icy claws. She dodged to the side with impressive speed, slashing her Chikage longways, running its sharp edge up the beasts side. The thing barely seemed to notice, backhanding her and knocking her across the frozen lawn. She quickly regained her footing, jerking her hair from her face. So this beastie would be more of a challenge than the oafs that ran through Yharnam, then? Good. She slid her Chikage into its sheath, pulling it out quickly after. Her Chikage was a weapon that relied upon bloodtinge, its sheath used her blood to strengthen it. It gradually ticked away at her, but the its power output was undeniable. Both of her hands grasped its hilt as she stared down the silver, boney monster before her. She lunged to the side; if she could get a good backswing she could- 

But the beastie was quicker than her; its claws raked across her chest, pinning her to the ground. She rolled away, leaving a nasty slice down its arm before its teeth could embed themselves in her skin. She circled around it the moment she got to her feet, lunging for its blood sac. The moment it cut through the outer flesh, the beastie let out a shrill, ear piercing shriek, donkey kicking her back into one of the statues that littered the yard. Blood was now pouring from the fleshy sac beneath it, and its attacks became more desperate. It leapt for her, and she only barely managed to roll away. She sprung back to her feet, bruised, beaten and bleeding. What the hell was this thing? How had it even gotten here. She knew she couldn’t use her bloodied Chikage for much longer, as she was already beginning to reel from bloodloss- so she had to make whatever strike she made next count; fast. She leapt into the air, raising her sword above her head, slicing the blood coated blade through the frozen flesh of the spider like beast. It wailed, a horrific, piercing death wail that the knight was sure would invade her nightmares from here on out. The beast collapsed, thankfully, and the knight shook the blood off her blade, reaching into her coat to retrieve a blood vial. Thankfully, she had stockpiled at least twenty on her ventures through Yharnam.  

She had just finished shoving the vial into her leg when she heard another monstrous shriek. She looked down at the dilapidated, mutilated body of the slain monster. If it wasn't coming from that thing, where- 

She looked out towards the castle to see six more crawling over the cliff, scouring the main courtyard. 

Her old master had once told her, 'Battles must be chosen wisely, young one. It would be preferable to you to only choose ones you have a fair chance of winning.' 

She'd rather not choose this one. 

--

  Luthran eagerly lurched out of the rickety, spindly carriage; horse drawn travel had never really boded well with his insides. He dropped his Kirkhammer to the ground and steeled himself against it, making sure he wouldn't vomit upon entering the despicable domain of the Vilebloods. He whispered slurred curses under his breath, as his head and stomach began to right themselves. 

'You're fine, Luthran, you trained under the most prestigious masters of the church; you shouldn't be rendered disabled by a little jostled carriage ride.' He hammered those words into his brain, standing upright and once again placing the weighted end of the kirkhammer upon his back. He steadied himself, sword in hand, as he looked up at the slightly opened gate; marvelous, that much easier to invade the hellish maw of evil that was the den of the vilebloods.   Without much hesitation, the eager executioner darted up the icy center of the staircase; his boots specially suited for this kind of frigid terrain. 

Unfortunately, for the young man, he was, perhaps, too enthusiastic about his task. For if he had held for a moment, he might have noticed the fresh, blood tinged footprints leading up to the gate, or the fact that the horses that had drawn him here now lay long dead behind him. 

--

  But occasionally, the young mans gusto served him well, and as he charged into the gaggle of bloodsuckers, it could quickly be agreed upon that this was not one of those occasions. 

"Blast it-" He hissed as a bloodsucker dug its teeth into his throat. He jerked his sword through its blood filled abdomen, slamming it onto the ground, cleaving a clean slice through its torso. He turned in time to see another one lunging for him; he backstepped, plunging his sword into the hilt of the kirkhammer, raising it above his head just as the beast landed. It managed to get one good swipe in on his leg before it was reduced to a ground up, meaty pancake. 

Luthran cursed, staggering backwards as five more of the bastards began to notice his presence. The door was closed, and he'd need time to get it open; time that he didn't have as long as those monsters were around. 

Stifling his overarching, dangerous enthusiasm, he retreated back to the other end of the courtyard, to a small, stony enclave that looked as though it hadn't been touched in years. He thumbed through the bag tied to his belt, pulling out a silverite blood vial; gifts from the blood saints of the church. Should he use one now? They were rarer than the regular healing blood that was famous in Yharnam. He looked down at it, Kirkhammer slung over his shoulder. He remembered how all of the young nuns, 'blood saints', had gathered around him before he left; wishing him luck. One or two had even placed coy kisses upon his cheek, before retreating behind their friends with flushed cheeks. It made him sad to think about now, would he ever see any of them again? Was there even a way back to Cathedral Ward from here? Would he ever again get a chance to fight alongside the church hunters, to mystify and terrify the blood saints with his harrowing stories from the hunt? They were small memories, of rare occasions, yes- but they added flavor to his dull life of singular purpose. 

The moment he stepped foot inside the rocky enclave, he was taken off his feet. His kirkhammer fell with a dull 'thud' against the snowy dirt ground, and his fingers didn't have a chance to pluck the sword from it before he was pinned to the ground. A boney knee pressed itself harshly into his ribs, and the sharp edge of a sword halted dangerously close to his throat. He was confused and panicked until whatever pinned him down spoke. 

"Executioner-" It hissed, a beastly snarl, with predatory eyes baring down on him. His body thought faster than his mind could and his rifle was soon pressed to the figures chin. 

"Vileblood-" He sneered back. Some may have called him foolish for this. His masters always said. 'Luthran, you do not think. You only do. This could be a wise course of action for some tasks, but for hunting vilebloods, you must use your brain. A foolish word could kill just as quickly as a blade.' Of course, he hadn't listened; and his foolishness had served him well so far. Perhaps, though, that was about to come to a bloody end. 

"Is it not enough for you to pillage my home once? Now the church sends Carrions like you to pick the flesh from its bones?" The figure that pinned him hissed bitterly. He realized quickly that the figure was either extremely young, or female. Its cloak obscured most of its face, so he couldn't even make out what they were. Only one way to find out, he supposed. 

He kicked them off him harshly, rolling to his feet and grabbing his silverite sword from the Kirhammer. He had just pointed the blade out in front of him when he heard the familiar clash of steel. The figures bloodied blade rang against his, and once again, they were in a deadlock. 

"Well, looks like we're at a stalemate again." He said, a sarcastic edge to his voice. The figure didn't respond with words, it merely growled. He looked behind it, seeing a cluster of what he believed to be the shrouded figures belongings on the edge of the enclave- the edge looking directly out towards the closed door. 

He could feel himself bleeding out; the blood saints vial having pittered down into the snow. 

"How long will this stalemate last, executioner? You're bleeding out, won't last much longer." The figure noticed his wounds at the same time he did, unfortunately. 

"And what of you?" He responded. "I know of your weapons, vileblood; I know that sword you wield eats away at you. I wonder, which one of us will die first?"

  The figure growled once again. 

"I can see, like me, you've been trying to make it through that door." It halted for a moment, looking at him full of apprehension. "So, may I propose this- we both wish to get into the castle, yes? And, from what I know of Vilebloods, you wish to free your queen who lay imprisoned here?" 

No answer.

  "So what say you to this, it's obvious that, alone, we probably can't do much in the way of fighting through the castle; we can't even get to the front door on our own. But, we fight through the castle together-" 

"Kill Logarius." The figure piped up quietly. 

"Yes, kill Master Logarius- and, at the end of all this, we fight. Whoever wins gets their wish- to either free the Vileblood Queen or destroy her." He raised his eyebrows amlicably. "It seems a fair deal, yes?" 

The figure was silent, but only for a moment. 

"And how shall I be sure that you won't kill me first chance you get?" It finally responded. 

"Because that would most likely spell certain doom for me, as well; and I quite like living." 

The figure took a slight step back, as if pondering this over.  

The minutes ticked by, and his vision slowly began to blur. 

"Deal." It finally responded, slowly lowering its Chikage, as he lowered his own blade. He breathed a silent sigh of relief, plucking his silver blood vial off the ground as the figure flicked the toxic blood off of its blade. He stabbed the vial into his thigh as a rapturous wave of relief washed over him. He could tell the vileblood was still watching him; understandably so, they were sworn enemies, after all. 

"So, I suppose it is now time for proper introductions?" He replaced the mallet of the kirkhammer upon his back, turning to face his new 'companion'. "I am Brother Luthran, of the Healing Church." He offered out his hand. The figure stared at it for a moment, before tugging away at the wrap that had been used to cover its face. 

As he guessed; it was, in fact, a female- which surprised him little. A large portion of the vilebloods were women, outnumbering even the men- it was a similar situation within the church. Many of the positions of hunters, blood saints, and even Vicar's had been taken up by women; gendered politics had no place within the streets of Yharnam. What surprised him was how shockingly pale she was; one could easily mistake her for a corpse. Her hair was a staunch white, and her eyes were the same icy color of the frozen walls. He considered, for a brief moment, that he had perhaps met a ghost. 

-

The sound of a helmet collapsing beneath of the force of her fist came as music to her ears.

"Guardian down." Came her ghosts deadpan voice not a second later.

"Shit, where is he?"

"About fourty seven kilometers south."

A beat.

"By the waterfall."

"Thank you, ghost." She broke into a sprint, pushing herself off the ground, ascending high above the treetops of the Crucible arena. The titan saw her friends body crumpled on the rocks surrounded by about four hostile guardians.

"Well, if that isn't just fuck all wonderful." She muttered.

"We could leave him?" The ghost suggested.

"No, no. I've got it." She pulled a pulse grenade out of her chest plate, pulling the pin and throwing it in the center of the rabble. Two hunters, one warlock, and a titan. Great, at least three of them are squishy ones. They scrambled at the first blast of her grenade, frantically aiming their sights up and trying to get a shot on her. That made it easy to pick off the first one. A hunter wearing the cloak of Future War Cult; her knee made such a forceful impact with his head, that she felt his collarbone collapse beneath her weight. He, naturally, went flying. She turned just in time to see the warlock set her sights on her. An autorifle, she didn't have time to figure out the model. Her fist quickly made contact with the womans face, smashing through her helmet as though it was made of aluminum foil. Her face caved under the weight of her fist, and before disintegrating the guardian made a weak gurgling sound. The other hunter had been taken out by the pulses of her grenade, being blasted across the length of the cave. The titan, however, had not been so foolish. He rushed out of the corner where he had been waiting out the grenade, his fist colliding with her chest. She felt her ribs give slightly under the force of his punch, which luckily, hadn't been charged. She cracked her elbow across his face, sending him staggering back a few steps. Before he could regain himself to punch her again, pulled the sights of her weapon up, point blank, and shot the titan through the throat. Like the warlock, the weak gurgling noise he made upon death was almost pathetic. She checked the scanner, breathing heavily; no more enemies in the area. Good. Any more and it wouldn't have been worth it. She kneeled beside her friend, sending her ghost out. Seconds past and he was standing again, in a shimmering array of light.

"You," She panted. "Are way too much work, you know that?"

"So are you." He snarked back at her. "Plus, four? I could have taken down four, easily."

"Obviously not or I wouldn't have had to Leeroy Jenkins your ass."

"They sniped me, that is different."

"Uh-huh, sure."

"Whatever, we're down by five and have about a minute left. Unless we want Shaxx to tear us a new asshole, I suggest we shape up." 

She couldn't argue that. She put a finger to her ear piece.

"Lawrence, you there?" She hadn't had to revive him once, so she assumed he was still alive.

"Barely!" Came the quick response, in the background there was rapid gunfire. 

"There are like, three snipers. Their whole friggin team is here. Point B."

"Alright. I'm on my way."

While she couldn't see his eyes, she could tell Smoke was glaring at her.

"I mean we'll be right there."

"Damn fucking straight WE'LL be right there." He grumbled.

"Oh shut up you know what I fucking meant."

"Yeah, sure, nothing passive aggressive there at all. I get it."

"I just- I fucking- Ughhh." He was impossible, even though she knew he was just being a sarcastic ass. They both took off running, top speed. They saw B. A giant red splotch on their map. Sure enough, there was Lawrence, firing off sidearm rounds and tossing in grenades alongside a hunter. His burnt orange armor wasn't hard to spot. And his plan was about as effective as one would think. Smoke slid next to Lawrence, managing to dodge two sniper shots and an arc grenade in the process.

"Alright, I'll go around the side with my sniper rifle and pick them off or we cou-" He wasted no time getting to the point. But the female titan wasted even less.

"Athena, wait!" Lawrence shouted, ready to charge in after her, again, in some Leeroy Jenkins rescue mission. That seemed to be their thing.

"Oh, fuck." Smoke sighed.

She clasped both hands together, descending upon the point in a glowing, electric arc. Bullets embedded themselves into her armor, some piercing through into her skin. She wasn't going to tap out, not yet, fuckers. Upon colliding with the ground, and the shockwave that followed, the team disintegrated before anyone had the time to so much as blink. One, two, three- kill after kill. The pulses after the blast picked off any stragglers, and the corpses of the team riddled the disputed point.

"Oh. My. God." Lawrence almost laughed. "That was thug as shit." She gave him a thumbs up, still reeling from blood loss.  

"Watch-" Came Smokes quickly cut off cry. She turned to see a beacon of light charging towards her. A warlock had self revived, and was coming back for some revenge.

"Oooh shit." Athena hissed. Ramming her fist into its chest, the blast had already dealt a fair chunk of damage. But Athena was in no shape to go toe to toe with them. A bullet from Lawrence's side arm embedded itself in the Warlocks thigh, staggering it. Without thinking, Athena pulled out her last pulse grenade, and hurled it at the Warlock.

One blast, that was all it took; and the warlocks dead body was once again hurled over the edge. She staggered back, looking at the scorched scene of total decimation before her.

"SEVENTH COLUMN." Came Shaxx's booming voice echoing through the arena, not even seconds after her brush with death.

"Duuude." Lawrence hissed, rushing up to her. "You got a fucking Seventh Column. HOOOOLY shit.'"

"Yes because obviously Shaxx was speaking way too quietly for either of us to hear." Came Smoke's inevitable sarcastic comment.

"Pbbft. Okay but come on this shit is impressive." Lawrence insisted, slinging his arm around Athena's shoulders.

"No shit." Smoke sighed, as the victory boom sounded. -

"Alright and don't forget to keep your cloaking device on. We don't need you reappearing in front of a Fallen battleship." Cayde continued, he had been talking her ear off for an hour.

"Yes, mother." Sketch teased.

"Okay, be sarcastic. I'm just trying to keep you safe. Hunters aren't the toughest, but we're the most resourceful. So as long as we're a little more cautious, hopefully you'll end up a little less dead."

"I know, I know." The awoken sighed like a haggard teenager, thumbing the sights of her sniper rifle.  

"I can see you're itching to get out there, can't blame you." The exo sighed like a wistful old man. "Now, here are the coordinates Ikora gave us. You need to get out there and relive Nora 77 of scout duty on that Warlock she has scanning out there. I still have no idea why Ikora insists on listening to Eris. The chick doesn't even have eyes why does she want us to scout a useless strip of space.." He grumbled on before sighing. "Whatever, I owe Ikora a favor, so you go out there and make sure her warlock doesn't get sucked into a black hole or something, alright?"

"Aye aye."

"And be safe, if I haven't already said that."

"Ooooh, just about six times now." Sketch rolled her eyes.

"Alright, in that case. Punch a gatelord in the face while you're at it, sarcastic little shit."

"Oh don’t worry," Sketch turned, marching dutifully out the door. "I fully intend to." --

Madrigal dragged her hands down her face. She needed a fucking break, a nap, or some coffee. Stat. Maybe preferably all of the above.

"How long have we been out here so far?"

'About seven hours now.'

"Greaaaat." She slumped back in her seat. "Anything abnormal yet?"

"No. And we're about 60% done." Her ghost surfaced into reality beside her head.

"Oh thank the traveler. I can't stand just sitting here. I'm pretty sure I have sores on my ass."

"Yet you have not once thought about leaving."

"No," She grumbled. "Because I do what I'm supposed to. Plus, if Ikora personally asked me to do this then it has to be important. Even if I can't see it yet."

She leaned forward, peering out into the bleak starscape.

Nothing. Absolutely, nothing.

Until a piercing shriek rattled through the nothingness.

The hive.

"Shit!" She hissed. "Ghost, switch to manual controls!"

'Roger.' The ghost dissipated out of reality again.

"Where's Nora?" Madrigal demanded.

'Seventy Kilometers below us. Eighty behind.'

"Tell her to prepare to activate her jump drive. And ready all offensive weaponry. This is the hive they won't make it easy."

A ripple in the fabric of space evolved into a tear. Madrigal readied herself for whatever might come out of it. A few Knights? Some Acolytes? She could handle that. Even a warship, with Nora's help. But she, in no stretch or favorable situation could handle this. A giant ship, fallen- no, giant was an understatement. It was gargantuan. It had hive growth riddling its outer hull. The mark of Crota scarred into its side.

"What in the hell?" She whispered in shock. She didn't have time for surprise, however, for as soon as it cleared the jump, the mammoth opened fire. "Shit." She said blankly, breaking into evasive maneuvers to dodge the green blasts that were rapidly being hurled her way. She saw Nora's ship as well, dodging the blasts as if she'd done it a hundred times.

Hunters. Typical showoffs.

"I'm activating the jump sequence." Her hands rapidly worked the machinery in her cockpit. "Tell Nora-"

But it had been too late. A blast took out her right wing, they had analyzed her flight patterns too quickly for her to come up with more.

"Nora!" She shouted, turning her head. It was just the wing, she could still escape, she could still-

A giant figure landed upon her ship. It had six arms. No. Four? It was- a fallen captain? Infected by the hive. Oh this was bad. This was, logically, the worst situation Madrigal could think of. The Infected Captain punched one of its arms through the top of her ship, ripping back the metal. Madrigal cursed, but for all her maneuvering all she could do was watch in horror as the beast pulled the exo, kicking and thrashing, from her ship.

"Come on Nora. Come on.." She hissed feebily, she hoped the hunter had a chance, one last trick; but she knew there were none as the Captain raised another hand to grip her leg.

And tore the exo in half.

"No-" She cried.

'This is our only chance to initiate the jump. We have to do it now.'

"Yes-" Madrigal hadn't realized she was shaking, staring at the exos mechanical innards flying out into space, her trembling fingers punched in the last of the coordinates-

But when she saw the Captain lunging for the side of her ship, it was too late. 

She jerked right, her ghost fabricating her helmet just in time..

It took out the entire left side of her ship, and her arm with it.

She screamed. A horrible, bloodcurdling scream. Her ships sirens doing nothing to drown out the terribleness of it. She grasped at the bloody stump of her arm, trying to regain her senses.

"Ghost, initiate the jump." She hissed, the Captain was still clinging to her ship, climbing its way up to the top. She was going to be Nora. She was going to be next.

'But half the hull is missing. I can't possibly make a full jump-'

"Then do a a partial just get us the fuck out of here." She grabbed Thorn, the cool metal pressing against the warm, exposed meat of her arm. The captain was now on top of the ship, readying to punch its arm through the outer shell of her hull.

'Initiating jump in three-'

She looked at its infected face.

'Two'

And she knew that the darkness had been closer than anyone had cared to admit.

'One'

And she knew she was going to kill it.

'Launching'

The Captain disintegrated in the jump, its horrible cry grating against her ears, but giving her a strange sense of satisfaction. The jump lasted milliseconds, and most of her ship fell apart, forcing her to lurch forward into space as soon as it had ended. She collided with a ship, her body tumbling across the red and yellow hull, smearing it with blood; before her contorting body was launched into vacant space. -

"What the hell?!" Sketch yelped as her ship collided with something small and- ..meaty? Blood smeared across her hull, obstructing her view. What the fuck had she just hit?

"Ghost what was that?" She demanded, her small, teal companion popping into existence right in front of her face.

"It seems to be....human?"

"Human?"

"It's missing an appendage, but I believe so. And it seems to be a guardian?"

"Are they alive?"

"Yes. But they've sustained significant injuries."

"Bring the ship around."

As they turned, a darkly cloaked, silverite figure came into view. Thrashing in space. It's blood pooling around it in zero gravity. It was a warlock.

"Holy shit, bring her inside the ship. Now." She flicked a switch on the roof of the ship, which began disintegrating the blood off her viewport.

"Understood."

The warlock disappeared in a flash of light, and screaming was heard in the cabin below.

"Take the controls, ghost." Sketch pulled herself up from her seat, ducking her head to get down to the cabin below.

She came down just as the warlock ripped her helmet off. It was a woman, with bright, peacock blue hair and dark eyes. Her hair was mid length, and expertly coiffed behind her ear. She looked graceful, even as she was losing blood.

'Holy shit, Sketch. Now is not the time to pick up girls, especially when the girl is armless and BLEEDING.' She shook her head.

"Are you okay? Oh, scratch that. Obvious question. Better one- what the fuck happened?" Sketch asked, kneeling in front of her.

"Were you Nora's relief?" The warlock hissed, looking up at her with murder in her eyes.

Sketch was taken aback. "Uh- shit. Yea- yes. Yes I am. Was. Why?"

"Turn around." She demanded coolly.

"What, wh-"

"She's dead. Turn around." The warlock grabbed her with her one arm, her steely tome cracking as it dissolved into mild panic. "You need to turn around right now or we both die."

Her eyes were haunted, bloodshot. She slumped back to her knees, easing her grip on the hunters cloak.

"GHOST!" Sketch shouted. "Turn us around. Full speed. To the tower." -

"Dude did you see when I snapped that guys neck with me knee and he just," Lawrence mimicked a brief convulsion, his helmet tucked under his arm. He even added a limp, ragdoll effect at the end of the spasm. "It was awesome."

"The ragdoll effect was a nice touch." Smoke commented, smoothing out a scuff on his gauntlets.

"I personally liked it when we sandwiched that storm caller between our knees." Athena nudged him, staring blissfully into the distance as if she was reliving the moment.

"Oh, fuck yeah. That dude thought he was going to fuck shit up. No, no, no, not in my house." Lawrence clenched his fist and beamed. There was some sick satisfaction in depriving someone of their super charged abilities.

"Glad to see you're having fun with it, guardians." Lawrence and Athena yelped, staggering away from the imposing figure that had somehow snuck up on them. Smoke jerked away, looking up to the intimidating figure of Lord Shaxx, the crucible handler.

"Jesus, Shaxx is that your special move. Scaring us to death?" Athena sighed, her heart rate having sharply elevated.

"If it was the enemy would be dead before I even got to lay a hand on them." She might call that a boast, if it was anything but the truth. "Saw your excellent play in the crucible, good work." He looked down at her, a feat few could manage, though he dwarfed every living being in the tower by at least three inches.

"Thanks, Shaxx." She said flippantly. "Maybe with a bit more polish I could go toe to toe with you." Despite her tone, Athena felt a beam of pride sink through her chest like a spear. A pride spear. Pointy, sharp, pride spear, straight through the heart. If she was blushing she'd punch whoever dared point it out.

"Oho," Shaxx played along, luckily noticing the sarcasm. "Don't get too cocky now. You still have to catch up to your friend over there. Don't think I don't notice the scores. Medals aren't everything." She didn't even turn around and she could already tell Lawrence was busting some cheesy smile and giving the 'cool kid' finger snap. Unfortunately, no matter how many times she broke his fingers, they'd immediately reset.  

"I might be prideful, but I'm not an idiot." She responded. "But I'm working on it. 'Honing my light' and all that."

"One might take it a bit more seriously. A chosen few receive that gift. They should use it wisely." Shaxx dipped into his 'serious tone' for a moment, the tone most people heard. You had to earn Shaxx's humor. "Anyway, I shouldn't keep you. I'm sure Zavala has something for you three. But I better see you in the crucible later. That's an order." Or as much of an order as he could give. He was a handler, not a member of the Vanguard, but people took his suggestions as orders, anyway; both out of respect and fear.

They nodded, waved, and gave a tounge click and finger point, respectively; and set back to their walk to the vanguard hall.

The Vanguard 'war room' itself was brightly lit, surrounded by dozens of glowing monitors, and frames operating them. At the center stood the vanguard, esteemed heads, leaders, and caregivers to their respected classes. Ikora Rey, the leader of the Warlocks, was buried in a dozen books, squinting down at each page, looking more worried than usual. Normally, she’d ask what’s wrong; but occasionally came to a certain amount of stress where she’d impale a guardian with her eyes; and maybe eventually she’d get to fists. Athena didn’t want to risk it.

The group made their way around the table, Cayde, strangely, was missing.

“Where’d he go?” Lawrence put their curiosity into words.

Smoke shrugged. “Might be off hitting on Amanda again. That, or badgering Eris.”

“Both viable options but he rarely leaves his post for either.” Athena added. “Maybe he finally snapped and ran away from the vanguard to explore the space wilderness.”

“That is sadly a very real possibility.” Smoke sighed.