Chapter Text
"You there, hunter. Didn't you see the warning? Turn back at once. Old Yharnam, burned and abandoned by men, is now home only to beasts. They are of no harm to those above. Turn back… ...or the hunter will face the hunt."
Perhaps the Hunter should have listened to that persistent man's adamant warning, instead of banishing Saw Cleaver and burning Torch to trespass into that forsaken town. Maybe even avoided the satisfaction of terrorizing charred Beasts traumatized by the flames that condemned them as monsters, though they were sons and daughters of human residents once before. There were numerous opportunities─well, not quite so─given by the Guardian in the Watchtower. Occasions when the Gatling Gun hellfire, raining down throughout each advancing hurdle the Hunter endeavored to overcome, would stall for a breath──oh, ouch, that is also not so.
"Turn back.. and leave at once!"
The Hunter could have done as instructed, instead of sneaking behind clouds of smoking wood or crouching in the shadows of collapsing brick and mortar. But, what is a Hunt without challenges to face? The Beast Patients gnash their fangs, and jump with the frenzy of bloodlust controlling their brains. They stalk the Hunter as their prey, and mock whatever morals might have existed to spare them.
However, a hunter is a predator without reason to be anything less. If the Beasts choose to attack, then the sting of a serrated blade is what shall cut them down. This conviction brings the Hunter dashing across a rotting plank bridge, and rolling onto a stone-paved rooftop.
Relentless gunfire ricochets half a step behind each frantic thump of booted feet, and only ceases to echo in the Hunter's ears when a blanket of fog offers coverage again. This moment, of raging adrenaline and desperate gasps caught in a mouth that knew to remain silenced, struck as the turning point in what could have been the Hunter's last chance to rethink this reckless decision of venturing into Old Yharnam.
This crucial instance in time, when a glimpse of gleaming amber hues pierce through the cloud of smoke and sway like dancing lanterns to draw closer to the Hunter's unsuspecting backside, is when everything goes so horribly wrong.
-
When a thunderous roar resonates three paces from where the Hunter currently stands, pure instinct drives those black boots to pivot on their heels as the click of a latch sends the Saw Cleaver swinging into its expanded form. In one violent jerk of the Hunter’s arm, the weapon forges a clear path through the gray shroud to bore serrated teeth into bristling fur.
Fresh blood sprays from the puncture wounds created within the jugular of the snapping creature. A wretched moan gurgles in its native beast tongue, calling out to its roaming brethren who will surely come to avenge its death. The gleam in its amber eyes darkens until the radiance fades completely, as trails of its lifeblood become one with the Hunter's vicious cleaver.
A sickening, viscous grinding noise rips chunks of flesh and muscle from the ruptured throat of the Beast as the weapon retracts. With a lifeless thud the threat is no more, and the Hunter catches an eager breath previously lost during the anxiety and haste. As the Hunter relishes in another flawless kill, blood-soaked eyes bask in the carnage while observing the remnants abandoned on the ground.
Up till now, the ravenous creatures have displayed their scorched branding and oversized maws without a measure of protection against the crackling flames they fear so much. The fires in Old Yharnam never die, yet only the bane of a waving Torch seems to trigger the reminder of their phobia. However, beneath the Hunter's boots is one far larger than the usual kind. One draped in a blanket of wet cloth, which did very little to hinder the Hunter's serrated blade but did enough to earn a bit of respect for its intelligence compared to the others who considered no appropriate solutions.
The Hunter remained marveling at the Cloaked Beast, temporarily forgetting the madman with the Gatling Gun and the importance of shelter from his shower of bullets. In plain sight, visible between the stacks of smoke, thanks to the snarling Beast that lured the Hunter out into the aim of triple barrels loaded and ready for fire. At the fall of one of his sacred Beasts, the Guardian in the Watchtower snaps his twin triggers and unloads his rage with an explosive growl.
"What have you done! Are you raving mad?! I said not to harm them, they are people, you devious rat! Can't you see…? It's madness… the one who should be hunted is YOU!"
The Silver Wolf bears his mortal fangs, in the midst of blasting calculated rounds in a preemptive strike towards the nearby havens the Hunter chooses to dodge roll into. The mad Old Hunter has adjusted to the Hunter's desperate patterns after hours of chasing that silhouette throughout almost every nook and cranny of town. Once ahead, two twists to the right, a staggering indecision to the left, and finally a zigzag dash toward brick or smoke to lie low like a godforsaken coward.
The Guardian of Beasts could foresee the Hunter's train of thought as clear as the Moon Presence overshadowing all their lives. This futile struggle would lead to a desperate climb for the third story windows if he allowed their dance of wills to continue, but he wouldn't let his prey get away so easily.
A feral grin spreads across the man's lips as he quickly yanks the barrels of his Gatling Gun to an immediate left just as the Hunter swerves to consider a subconscious dip to that same direction. Sparks of gunfire clatter against the stone paving before the Hunter can make the decision, causing black boots to slide into an abrupt 90 degree turn back toward the front.
From somewhere far too close, a sudden whistle cuts off the steady whish of flying Quicksilver and the Hunter has barely a fraction of sight before a bone-crushing fist slams into unsuspecting ribs. A wet, guttural cough steals from the Hunter's lips in an instance as jolts of excruciating pain course through every nerve in the Hunter's body.
Blood-soaked eyes quiver with each new wave of agony, while clinging desperately to Saw Cleaver in hand for a chance to retaliate. However, a similar brutality is quickly shown to the Hunter's dominant wrist before the thought to strike back can even form in the Hunter's brain. A nauseating crack echoes in the still air, and the appendage is broken to fall limp and useless as the Hunter's weapon drops to the ground.
By now it's not just a mere trembling, the Hunter is screaming in breathless gasps within a pair of arms that offer no comfort while refusing to allow the Hunter to succumb to the stone paving beneath. The Hunter's knees are buckling from the sheer anguish, and begging to be freed from the weight of standing. Still, those hands that break bone so easily stay snaked around the Hunter's waist as frigid words beckon for his attention.
"Did you think you could escape? Entrance into Old Yharnam is one-way; if you did not heed the warning or spare any care for the Beasts...then surely you must understand the consequences? A true hunter like you must know that we all have to hunt something in this line of work. Even if our prey may differ, that something gives us purpose. Ignorant bastards like you are our purpose here in Old Yharnam, and you've done a terrible thing by trespassing into our town to soak our streets in the blood of the little beasts we care for!"
Resolute hands, which once offered support, switch to ones pushing the Hunter to kneel on the ground. The unbreakable strength found in the grip of the Hunter’s captor latches onto the same arm stinging with a broken wrist as the figure looming above shifts into a new stance. The Hunter is swimming in a sea of pain, and barely understands the intentions of these movements before the blood-curdling scream comes.
Another sickening crack, and the Hunter is close to oblivion. The arm falls loosely, damaged and broken, as this ruthless tormentor slaps the tricorn hat from the Hunter's brow to yank at the short raven strands obscured underneath. Like a rotten scoundrel, foreign and naïve in the eyes of Old Yharnam, the Hunter is kicked around and forced to kiss the dirt. A blackened sole drives itself into the trembling spine, grinding into the clothed flesh and bone, as the Hunter writhes and hisses to a chorus of laughter from the man above.
"Oh, bear with the pain a bit longer, Hunter. We are only just beginning the trial for your crimes! Ha-ha-ha, don't think ill of our ways just because of a few broken bones. We deal with your ilk no differently than the civilized folks above. If your hands are clean of beast blood, then you need not fear judgment. So, tell me Hunter, are your hands clean?" There is a smugness to the man's tone, a sense of omniscient satisfaction, as he applies more agonizing pressure and stomps the Hunter further into the ground. "Oh? Wait now, don't hiss and say it, for I can already hear your thoughts, Hunter. You're asking yourself, 'why does this man waste his time asking questions he already knows the answer to', right? Then listen, listen well, to what I'm about to say. Aaah, you see, we are hunters too, ya know? And what does the Healing Church command us to do? They still expect us to confess and pray even though we are tainted sinners with no hope of repentance. So, what must we do? Well…grovel and pray, Hunter. Cry for atonement so that all of Old Yharnam can hear, and maybe a few of your bones will find refuge in a grave before the night is over. Yes, Hunter, maybe I'll do you a parting kindness before we're through…"
Whining muscles and cracking joints are music to this man's ears. Each wince of pain, each hiss of strain to resist, makes a bit more sinful pleasure course through his veins. He cannot describe this intoxicating feeling which overcomes him, or why he derives some much enjoyment out of slowly torturing these ignorant hunters. Perhaps it's the way their voices scream without ever begging?
Hunters are so prideful, no matter how excruciating their death. Dying may change the tones of their voices and grate like nails on a chalkboard from how obnoxiously they squeal to the heavens as their bodies disintegrate into ashes, but they never ask to be saved. In the past, he has slaughtered many of their kind who have disregarded the warning and broken their bodies down slowly until their crimes match the weight of the Beasts they have murdered in their feeble-mindedness.
No matter how much he butchers them into nuggets of flesh, no matter how many times he gouges out their eyes and skins them alive, they asked for no mercy. They just keep struggling fruitlessly. Some wailed into the night as he tied them to their posts before letting the Beasts feast upon them until their voices were snuffed out like another dying flame. Others grunted and moaned, trying to bear with the inevitable, as he bled them like cattle or burned them by various degrees. Yet still, none of them had begged him to stop a single time. Each one had always held something in their eyes, a glimpse of hope waiting for them in a dream, which had driven them to fight tooth and nail despite knowing there would be no escaping after triggering the mechanism heralding their doom. They knew, by instinct, that the trapper would always come to collect whatever is foolishly caught…
As a fellow hunter, he is different from the ones who struggle against death. He welcomes those who might slay him. In fact, one of his earliest memories as a child was of a man baptizing him in blood and wrapping him in the putrid husk of a Beast. That man treated him as something wretched and vile, tortured him until he was numb to fear, and the one time he ever begged for life instead of death…that man yanked him by his chains and slit his throat. He survived that ordeal because of a slightly dull edge and a curious wolf in silver fringes that thought his blood-soaked pelt belonged to a poor Beast worthy of saving from an addled hunter.
Finding a battered boy instead of a whimpering Beast must have been dreadfully disappointing, because even as he choked on blood while falling into darkness…his savior did not look at his human flesh. The cloak of mangled fur he had always been forced to wear was petted and mourned for, as if his savior might shed tears for the lost creature. He couldn't speak or cackle at these men who were so entranced by Beasts but, maybe by whim or stroke of madness, he mustered all his remaining strength to nuzzle that wolf's paw and gurgle a miserable pur.
Such a stupid thing should have killed him, yet this beast-loving-coot actually applied pressure to his throat and stabbed him with some vials to heal him. He was given life because he acted like a beast! It was too hilarious! Yet, he has acted as one ever since and cursed those who hunt the flesh and bone that represents everything he is. Beasthood protects him, eliminates his fear, and coaxes that silver wolf to stick around to play Guardians with him instead of abandoning him like just another corpse for the pile.
And yet ignorant men, like this frolicsome Hunter who charges through doors instead of abiding by warnings, dares to intrude upon his sanctuary from the true Beasts roaming the streets up there beyond this forsaken town. He must teach him a valuable lesson, must ravage his skin from the bone to protect this kennel that keeps Djura bound from venturing off where he might not bid him to follow. One accursed Hunter will not take this second chance from him! He shall become the Scourge again, an embodiment of Hell on earth to annihilate those who make the Guardian Wolf stand and ignite those double-barrels.
Djura is only allowed to aim those smoking shafts at him as foreplay when a mere call down the ladder isn't enough to get him climbing up and on his knees to do whatever his master wants. But this godforsaken Hunter has bullet cartridges strewn about all across town, and dares to trail paths of bloodshed this close to the Watchtower! He had to put a stop to this, he had to do more than break a few measly limbs. For Djura's sake!
And so, with his thoughts in order, this Ally of the Silver Wolf leans down towards the pitiful Hunter wedged beneath his boot heel and the ground. A tarnished glove lashes out to yank those messy strands of raven hair, fisting them in an impenetrable grip as he forces the Hunter's neck to snap backwards and stare towards that beacon of pure authority that has sheltered him for years. He gets even closer, bending a knee into the Hunter's spine as the ruthless man makes a fine seat out of his writhing prey.
In this position, the man leans forward to trail his tongue along the side of the Hunter’s cheek before drawing a Shaman Bone Blade from his waist-pouch and tapping the smooth tip against the moistened skin. His baritone voice comes again as bitter puffs of hot air tickle against the Hunter's skin, reaching close towards a vulnerable ear and coaxing with twisted encouragement, as that poisoned blade slaps against the Hunter's flesh a few more times.
"Come on, fight back like you did all this way. Don't lose your nerve now, Hunter. After all, …look! Up there, at the vantage point of the spire! I know you lack eyes to truly see, but Djura watches us from above. If you don't put on a good show for him, well, …I wouldn't worry about dreaming anymore. He and I, we'll definitely keep you awake forever. When push comes to shove, as a fellow hunter, you understand how much torture our bodies can handle before we fade to specks of dust...you won't find respite here. Look to the dawn, Hunter. Pay your respects before this blade of mine grows tired of being idle. Who knows, maybe some good groveling will do you well? …try it."
As it were, an inescapable curiosity, lingering beneath reluctant defiance, draws the Hunter's gaze to the elevated silhouette looming in the distance. Without gunfire and smoke, that presence which has chased him everywhere since the very beginning is now a bit clearer. There, near the orange glow of the horizon, stands a fellow hunter in silver accents and fringes. A Man, or slow-turning Beast like Gascoigne, with tattered bandages over half his face to conceal what must surely be the onset of symptoms from the festering bloodlust in his veins. Those who cling to the blessed cloth of the Healing Church always hide their addled eyes from others who might recognize the unnatural glow and carnivorous sharpness of their pupils.
Those with experience know where to look, because transformation begins within the proverbial window unlocking the door to the inner gears that keep everything churning about. Their eyes, right where humanity can glimpse into the naked truth of their soul and the festering of insanity plaguing their brains, is where the Beast manifests and catches sight of the world through a different sort of lense. That man who hides one damaged eye must have seen the other plane, and must have known better than to linger about staring at what his mind should never seek to understand. With all that has become of the Church, this town, and those fools at Yahar'gul…it is better to live behind the veil or to hide those unfortunate marks born of beastly insight.
And, bizarre as it may seem, that Silver Wolf dares to place judgment upon him while stroking those godforsaken twin barrels as if he were not just another coward hiding from the eldritch truth and those atrocities mankind had wrought upon themselves by aspiring towards godhood. Old Yharnam's Guardian regards the Hunter like the most wretched bane of it all, yet the Hunter merely matches his gaze with clear accusations of his own. 'If the Beasts attack first, then why should he be slain for defending himself? In the natural order of Beasts, the strongest survives, so what does he have to atone for?' This plain and simple defiance burns within the Hunter’s stare, but Djura barely acknowledges this as his attention shifts to the boldly grinning Ally subjecting the Hunter to all of this.
Neither of the men bother with the contempt written upon his face, because this frustration and anger he feels is not new to them. They have crossed paths with many of the same sort, and have thus known to predict his temperament from the moment his soles sauntered across the threshold to blatantly disregard the written warnings nailed to advise him against entry. Many well-trained hunters are wired the same as him, with obstinate self-righteousness ingrained within their very veins as part of the cross they bear for the sake of the cause. That incurable mindset plagues Yharnam more than the bloody affliction itself. Thousands of residents, whether hunters or not, believe themselves to be more entitled and justified in whatever they do simply because the gods have spared them a moment longer than their neighbors.
But what fools they are once the eve for their turn arrives and the ones transforming into ravenous Beasts are the bold ones who previously swore, 'that creature shall never be me.' These malformed children, patients blighted by the beasthood, were sons and daughters of humanity once. They were the chanting fellows in the pews of the old churches, the mothers pushing strollers or chattering in the shops. They were school children with bright futures, and delinquents finding their distinctive paths. They were beggars and the forgotten, the elderly and the rotten. They were people, just people living their daily lives, until they became emaciated husks coughing up splatters of ‘the bad blood’. They were common folks whose eyes became golden, with their teeth elongating into fangs, and their hairs becoming manes coursing down the length of their skin and bones as their bodies became warped in the midst of their skeletons protruding and cracking to adjust to their animalistic changes.
Thousands and thousands succumbing to madness and unquenchable hunger, as those everyday residents who thought ‘this could never happen, this could never be me’ found themselves wailing in realization that ‘yes, it can be you, just the same as everyone else!’ The gods do not ‘spare a few’ out of favor. They only enjoy delaying the inevitable, watching as humanity squirms and denies what exists right in front of their eyes. Why? Because this way the gods can laugh and laugh at the lesser beings beneath them for decades and centuries without losing all the amusement in the passage of a single night. This is the harsh truth those ‘in the know’ must bear, so…so…
…how could they disregard him and dare to blame him?! Isn't he the one cleaning up this mess, and doing what others cannot by ignoring the sensibility of who they once were to relinquish their souls from the godheads by ending their miserable existence as beasts?
It is preposterous to him how they cannot admit to his meritable actions and yet, from the signs of inflamed conviction in their eyes, these men do actually seem to understand though they care nothing for the claims and grievances he gives. These estranged men, with their egotistical manners, condemn him wholeheartedly. They exchange wordless glances across the horizon to further mock him, before nodding in affirmation to one another to finalize the agreement they must have settled in some cryptic conversation which neither had wished for him to overhear. Their secrecy unnerves him underneath his rage, and fills his mouth with an infestation of bitterness as their shit-eating grins unexpectedly cause him to recoil and shudder from an onset of fear as the Old Hunter clicks his tongue while motioning another signal to his Ally.
This sudden rush of fear perplexes the Hunter, churning him up inside, even as his hackles rise in the midst of unleashing a disdainful growl in his defiance towards these contemptuous men. He expects more pain, invites it even, but the Silver Wolf he is daring to provoke despite his instincts telling him to be cautious does nothing more than chuckle before moving to sit down upon his elevated watchtower to feign indifference towards him. He exudes relaxation, with eyes trained to witness more of whatever lies in store for him, as smiles at the seething Hunter. Old Yharnam's Guardian has sentenced him, the Hunter can tell by his demeanor and by the sense of bloodlust emanating from the good lap-dog he commands.
They don’t care for his reasons, they only want him suffering for the ‘lives’ he took.
That truth is blatantly obvious, even before the Silver Wolf says as much in his patronizing voice:
"Pay heed to my words, Hunter. My companion and I deem you guilty of countless murders within our town. For it is a fine mess of things you've made by slaughtering these defenseless beasts without any regard for the laws we uphold down here. Of course, it is your nature to reek of blood as you kill thoughtlessly again and again… but I did warn you to spare these unfortunate children despite your incessant penchant for ignorance. But you, you wretched and bloodthirsty thing. You do not give any thought to the Beasts or the purpose of the Hunt. So we, your elders and mentors, must bear the blame and teach you some remorse by the bane of your own suffering. Consider what happens to you from this point on as an act of goodness on our behalf as we enact our judgment upon you. Perhaps, in this way, you apologize to the innocents you've slain. Do your best, Hunter. My Ally shall take care of you. His methods, though crude, shall build character in the likes of you. Do well to pay back the blood you’ve spilt in this town, Hunter. Then, perhaps next time, when the one to be on the opposite end of things is you, you might consider a bit more courtesy in your actions. When it is you who is the beast, will you reflect upon what you've done? I wonder, would you still ask for the sword to be swift instead of praying your damndest for the hunter to show you some mercy?”
The Hunter curses and continues to growl, furious at his high-and-mighty words, as he thrashes around like a beast while the good Ally holds him down, “Fuck the Old Hunters! How dare cowards like you ridicule me when it is all of you who hide away to leave the treacherous work of cleaning up these sorts of messes to the outsiders and newcomers who know nothing of what you've done until your warnings and judgments come out of nowhere to crucify them for trying to save whatever is left of this sorry town?! Didn't you kill a few trying to save others from this accursed place? Didn't you hunt beasts knowing you were killing afflicted family members and friends? What claim do you have to authority, when it is you and the others who have nurtured this problem instead of doing a damn thing to end any of this madness! Do you honestly think all of us should just keep ravenous pets like you? Is the real reason you reside in a tower overlooking it all instead being down here with the ravenous beasts like the rest of us because you're actually scared? I bet you're quaking in your boots and pissing your pants over these beasts because somewhere along the way you realized you're weak and powerless despite all your gadgets and gunpowder! Hate me all you want, old bastard, but at least I am doing something to figure out this curse my forebears have left for me instead of biding my time waiting to become another murderous fiend bound by instinct and unable to stop myself from killing those who are dear to me!!”
…..
….
..
.
“....are you done? Have you said it all, Hunter? Why not take a breath now, cherish it, especially for the sake of the Old Mentor you slander all the same as the rest of us who are despised and accused of this whole bloody mess of things!” Djura spares him a glance this time while raising his tone, before resigning himself to an act of sighing in a deliberate measure to calm this sudden spark of agitation. “We did everything we could, you know? All of us sacrificed and endured the unceasing nightmares in hopes of fixing this wretched world for the younger souls believing in us. But reality is harsh, Hunter. Our efforts were no different than the plague! Everything we tried only spread it more. The antidotes we crafted only accelerated the transformation, and the prayers we spoke to the gods we trusted only bore us silence in the midst of all our despair. We were imperfect, and absolute failures to those we swore to protect. You may curse us, Hunter. Do it until your throat is sore and bleeding, but don't think you are the great humanitarian we've all been waiting for. Others have come and nearly cursed the entire bloody dictionary trying to make dozens of their points while standing on their elevated pedestals, but what do all these words matter in the grand scheme of things? What makes you better than the Old Hunters? Should I let you kill as you like simply because you think a little more bloodshed will get you closer to the answers none of us could find after years of being saturated by the hunt? Do you think a mere foreigner will be the one to save our sorry town after everything we've done and after everything we've sacrificed? Hah! You neither belong here nor truly care about anything more than satisfying your curiosity. So, good Hunter, how can you speak to me—an actual veteran resident of this godforsaken hellhole—as if you've been a part of all our suffering since the beginning when the fires raged or when our when sons and daughters tore each other to shreds to feast upon their very own kind! What has the plague taken from you? What have you lost? You cannot name a single damn thing, Hunter! Which is why your incessant ranting and pompous preaching means nothing to us! You are merely another fool to us, Hunter.”
“I am not the foolish one here! You are both pretentious bastards compared to me!! I have signed the contract and given away my entire identity for the sake of strangers. All this blood I have bled has been for Yharnam, for its residents who shun me while hiding behind their bolted doors. This wretched town steals away any kindness I am able to find, and leaves me on the opposite end of a blade almost every hour. What do I have to fear from becoming a beast? What is the difference between them and me? Listen up, and I'll tell you. The only line between us is our ability to survive. As long as my hand is swifter, then my story can continue to progress. Such is the law of nature. That is what matters more than your sympathy for these deranged creatures who have forgotten their humanity and given into this basic mentality of ‘kill or be killed’. If your pets stand in my way, Old Hunter, then do not mock me for a retaliation or two when it is their fault for bearing their teeth instead of whimpering in a safe place like you. It is your inability to adequately protect them that has caused their undoing. Do not blame me for acts of self-defense. Your words of warning do not bind me, Old Hunter. You may have suffered as the first generation on scene and given up, but I am not backing down. Whatever secrets are here to be found for the sake of ending all of this, I will find them. You will not stop me! This perpetual night must be stopped, even at the cost of a few rotten beasts or their deranged masters!!”
The Hunter shouts as the weight increases upon his spine before being reduced to snarling and heaving curses at them in regards to Djura's words and accusations. He could have said a myriad of more things, but he also couldn't completely disagree with his own truth of being an “outsider” with no right to go crazy badmouthing these victims of extreme tragedy. They had suffered far worse than him, even if he had demanded for their understanding. His anger and frustration had made him hiss thoughtless arguments in rage, but even he knew that what he had experienced wasn't anything in comparison. He had only endured the loss of temporary meetings and the rough pounding of things he could assuredly kill thanks to the blood and sweat put into the tools their generation had crafted. If not for the Old Hunters and Scholars, he could have been swinging wooden shields and iron pitchforks to no avail like the deranged men parading in the square. For that reason, the Hunter eventually becomes silent despite all the rage festering inside of him. He keeps a tight hold upon his tongue even as Djura's replies as one determined to educate him with that visibly smug smirk on his lips despite the incensed indignation still gleaming in the Hunter's eyes:
“Pretentious, deranged, and what else? Do you think you have a pedestal to stand on, Hunter? As men of conviction we are the same, but conversation is wasted on us. We will never concede or reconsider our views as men who can see eye to eye. As such, what can we do in a predicament like this? Oh, talk as you must, but realize your own circumstances and the fact that you have already lost to men like us and it is your duty as the weaker species to be subjected to our whims of justice and outrage. That is your role to play since you have failed to present yourself as the stronger one among us. Isn't this so because of your own boorish logic? I'm sure you didn't think of us as smart enough to throw your own words back at you, but we were scholars as well, you know? Our minds are as refined as those jabbering relics in the church, the very same ones you seem to respect for whatever reasons you have. But pardon this Old Hunter for succumbing to tangents, after all, what matters above all else is that you have become our prey. Regardless of how you feel, from this point forward, your fate is ours to decide.”
Saying this, Old Yharnam's Guardian loses the stable grin which had solidified him in the guise of a relaxed composure. He raises a hand to motion towards his Ally as the octave of his tone switches from one of forbearance to one of clear authority. “But, fortunately for you, since you still continue to dream, what lies ahead will only be a humbling experience despite all our efforts to punish you. Still, it will be enough to leave a long-lasting mark upon you which even you won't be able to recover from without thinking twice before unsheathing your blade as carelessly as you have in the previous hours. You'll remember the disrespect you have shown, especially when you consider Old Yharnam and the countless beasts you've slain without a lick of redemption before your oh-so-chivalrous blade got the best of them for the cost of sins they would not have committed if you had simply stayed away from them. These choices you've made will be your undoing. Remember them, when my faithful Ally and I treat you to the same uncharitable hospitality you have shown towards all us amidst all your curiosity for things you should have left well enough alone!”
At his words, the Hunter nearly breaks his silence to protest and argue in defense of his actions all over again. He is offended by the thought that his good intentions have been taken so egregiously without an ounce of gratitude towards the miraculous things he has accomplished. Had he not saved a few and spared those who had proved themselves sane enough for a second chance at humanity? Had he, a foreigner, not taken up arms to defend a town he could have simply walked away from? Had he not listened to their pleas instead of ignoring them? Had he not fought godheads to seek out redemption from a plague he didn't have to actually bear or suffer through along with the rest? For all he had done, shouldn't he be treated as a saint rather than as some archfiend? Shouldn't his noble actions be worthy of praise instead of so much disrespect?
For all his deeds, the Hunter couldn't understand why he should be cursed and punished like some meddlesome scoundrel ruining their lives. Who cares if others perceive him as foreign, or even damn him as a soulless bastard for having no emotional investments to attribute to his name! Yharnam is neither his home, nor a place of warm welcomes. He cannot be judged for not having enough fond memories of this dreadful town to use as a testament to his cause. And yet, despite it all, he is still a more honorable man than these Old Hunters think! Because when Eileen took him under her wing and spoke so softly about her resolve to cut down those addled by the blood, did he not believe in her words and strive to follow in her footsteps? When Gilbert nearly hacked out a lung just trying to speak informative words to him, did he not ache for him as he offered the fragile man an ebony handkerchief to wipe away the blood? And when good-natured Alfred held him around the shoulders while chuckling about a great oodles of things or offered him a clobbering hammer whenever the adversaries seemed to be too much, did he not feel moved to believe in this deep sense of comradery no matter how brief? How could he not have been influenced after experiencing such things! He may not belong in this godforsaken town, he may not be one of them by the nature of his roots, but that doesn't mean he is a man so thoughtless and cruel towards others. Things aren't so black and white as the Old Hunter says!
Furthermore, why should he be blamed? Why is it his fault if the beasts were once human? Someone has to do the things that others cannot! Someone, like a foreigner, who will not hesitate when the foe is familiar or comparable to a person once held dear. And yet these people, these bitter men, are not thanking him but instead raining judgment down upon him? What insanity is this? They shouldn't be pinning him to the ground, they shouldn't be hunting him like another one of the rats infesting the streets, and they shouldn't be cross with him as they perform heinous acts like cutting up his flesh or breaking his bones!!
They should appreciate the good spartan fellow they have been fortunate enough to meet.
But!
No one does! No one praises him, not even those kind enough to acknowledge him or fight alongside him in all these hellacious battles! Each of these Yharnamites speak to him as if he is the sheer embodiment of the Plague! Or, at least, …a contributing part of it. No one accepts him, not truly, even in spite of all he has done whilst staking his very life on the line for them and this accursed town which is determined to shun him in all things he does! For all his efforts, nothing can ever seem to be enough to bridge the gap or change their inhospitable way of thinking. Their constant discrimination towards him drives him nearly to madness, festering into his good-natured soul like maggots devouring his very essence inside, no matter how persistently he tries to be the magnanimous person his doting doll encourages him to be.
Through rancid sewers overwrought with fiends to abandoned landscapes entombed in fires, hadn't he traversed it all for the sake of them? Everything, for those who refused to open their doors or even unbar their windows to allow him a chance to come inside despite how earnestly they ordered for him, THE OUTSIDER, to solve the wretched mess their own people had wrought upon all of Yharnam! Haha! Why should he be punished for trespassing when no one will speak to him or even explain the true nature of things unless he ignores all the warnings to go flouncing about as he breaks down each barricade in front of him to determinedly advance? Even this conversation with the old deranged wolf is only because he sought out the voice behind the note on the door for the sake of gaining more insight into things unknown.
The killing of these beasts is nothing more than a reflex serving as self-defense for his own survival. Can such a thing be so wrong?
No, surely it cannot be, …right? There is no conceivable way for him to have been misguided in his righteous endeavors! Even if the beasts were once people, even if he could have found an alternate way through without startling and killing a few, isn't it okay to consider his actions justified? Because they pounded upon him from around every corner, he could only react to the threat of their fangs and whatever else they dished out. If things were different, if Old Yharnam's residents were really human instead of beasts, then wouldn't his actions be perceived as no different from someone fending off an assault or a thief with a knife out to get them? Isn't it one's basic survival instinct taking over, and nothing more?
Perhaps he is in the wrong for simply barging in unannounced, but what can he do when the situation is so gravely dire? More and more are succumbing to the affliction, with the remaining leaders upstairs all becoming silent or reduced to wailing in their prayers. He can only rely upon the notes scattered about, and the clues pointing him towards the next ferocious abomination waiting to be trounced. He could not overlook Old Yharnam, and the possibility of stumbling upon some new discovery. He had already read the writings of the ritualists and the blood-drinking ceremonies which were getting him closer and closer to the source of all of this madness. He hadn't meant to disturb anyone, he hadn't meant to cause harm, but what is a Hunter to do with so many ravenous creatures smashing through doorways or leaping from the rafts above for the sake of tearing him to pieces with their fangs and claws? If the beasts had simply stayed away, then he would not have sliced and diced them into slabs of meat ready to be served to the vulturous birds lurking about. If they had kept to their shadows, then he would have kept his serrated blade sheathed to do no harm as he made his way towards the abandoned domains and churches in the outskirts.
But things hadn't been so easy, and so he had responded to the aggression being shown towards him. It isn't his fault, he isn't to blame for the things he had to do to survive! This is what he believes, and what he ultimately screams out in his defense towards the horrendous accusations coming from the Old Hunters slandering his name and upstanding intentions. His outburst infuriates them further, earning him more pain from the Ally restraining him, as the Old Wolf in charge finally rises to act after losing his patience listening to him consistently mouth off.