The Sandman (Bloodborne)

[Lemor]

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To begin with, this is a translation of one of my works. As you can tell, I'm not a native English speaker, so you will probably come across a lot of awkward sentences and mistakes. Please let me know if you notice any.

The Yharnam presented in this fanfiction does not strictly adhere to canon, nor does it aim to include every character or follow the exact sequence of events from the game. This is an AU — quite a significant one, at that.

I will try to take as much "real" canon into account as possible, but first and foremost, this fanfiction is a reflection on what Yharnam could be outside the context of the game, and how I, as the author, personally envision it.

Furthermore, it is important to clarify that this fanfiction does not aim to perfectly replicate the atmosphere of the game. Character behavior may be slightly different, and the overall level of surrounding madness may be toned down — though that isn't certain and depends on the phase of the Moon Presence.

If that is acceptable to you… well, enjoy the read!
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Chapter 1

Doubt, regret, reluctance. It has been a long time since I felt these emotions so vividly. They saturated me from my sandy feet to my sandy crown, making my illusory body tremble. Like some old geezer, I was literally crumbling into sand, and for the life of me, I couldn't understand why.

I had repeatedly entered the dreams of beings who wished to settle scores with life. They could be all sorts—surprisingly peaceful and calm, or the opposite: chaotic, twitchy, capable of shattering at a single attempt to speak with the owner of the dream. Back when I first lost my body and still felt emotions intensely, I reacted in a similar way. But too much water... that is to say, sand, has flowed since then.

Even though I tried to be sensitive and understanding, in reality, there were almost no feelings left in me. And could they, these feelings, even remain for long in a minor dream spirit at all? As it turned out, they could.

"You know, I think you're rushing things a bit, sweetheart," my voice rustled. "Come on, I can send you another vivid dream and you'll feel better again, alright? Come on, chin up, it's not all that bad, Lady Maria!"

I probably resembled a dog, excitedly fussing around a foolish human. My shifting, golden-lit form circled anxiously around a girl who had lost all will to live, trying to cheer her up in some way. But it was all useless. Gentle, fragile at first glance, refined, but also—if you looked closer—surprisingly strong. She looked like an aristocrat who had never held anything heavier than a hairpin in her life, yet also... like someone much more terrifying. I only knew roughly what she did, but the mere fragments of stray memories made the sandy hair on my ass stand on end.

Not only her, but her world felt very vaguely familiar to me. Her seemingly fragile, tender image, with pale, almost white long hair, which, in my sandy view, didn't go very well with the coarse attire of some hunter! The constant sense of déjà vu was starting to irritate me, as if an elephant were running past my sandy nose and I still couldn't remember what I was missing! The foundation, the body, was lost, lost!.. Even this chapel where she decided to nap, vividly projecting its image into the dream, seemed familiar to me. And that was frightening. It scared the hell out of me, subconsciously demanding I pack up my sand and get out. Something familiar, something terrible—I definitely didn't like this place for some reason.

Like hell I will! I'm not going anywhere!

"Lady Maria, think again," I rustled softly. "What will your patients think? Didn't you say you wanted to help them?"

"Patients…" Lady Maria whispered, horror in her voice.

The dream shuddered, tears began to fall from her eyes, and her body shook. What did I say wrong now, Morpheus take me?! I had to urgently deploy my sand and literally plug the emerging breaches with it, stabilizing the dream. I understood that if she woke up now, she wouldn't sleep again. Except for the eternal sleep, and that's a bit different!

"You were honest with me before," I made my voice a bit more judgmental. "What happened?"

Usually, I didn't linger in the dreams of the same beings. But the case with Lady Maria was a bit more unique. She had seemed familiar to me from the very first moment we met, sparking my curiosity. The girl climbed out of her grim thoughts for a moment, turning her tearful, almost glassy gray eyes toward me.

"I have done too many irreparable things, kind Sandman," the girl whispered. "I thought they were going to help them… We were wrong… Gehrman… I'm so sorry… The Healing Church—they are liars, all of them… they all …"

The girl's voice trembled; she began to remember something, and it couldn't help but reflect in the dream: the surrounding space blurred, and from all sides rose the screams of people in unbearable agony, clutching bloated balls of flesh that had replaced their heads. The realization that this wasn't just an image distorted by a nightmare, but a perfectly real memory, made my sandy cheeks clench into a crystalline state. I hate it! I hate dark fantasy, damn it! It's only cool from the outside; being in dark fantasy is not cool at all! Or what kind of world is this even? Oh, who cares!

A wave of sand, glinting with a golden hue, rolled through the dream again, washing away the nightmare and stabilizing the girl's mind, if only slightly. To give the sweetheart her due, she sincerely trusted me despite all the horror she'd endured, and so she didn't even try to resist my interventions. Otherwise, it would have been significantly harder. After all, I was too weak to influence anything on a large scale, especially such vivid nightmares.

"You decided to help me again…" the beauty laughed weakly. "Thank you… thank you… You helped me believe again in…"

Lady Maria suddenly coughed up blood; her collar was stained crimson. The world began to crumble, and I could no longer stop it.

"You took poison…"

My voice echoed from all sides, and my sandy body trembled even harder. This was her death-dream.

"I didn't hope I'd have time to say goodbye to you, but the Gods were merciful to me…"

A faint, barely noticeable irony sounded in her voice. If there was one thing she didn't believe in, it was the mercy of the local gods. I, in principle, doubted that there could be "good" gods in dark fantasy at all (unless their purpose was to be brutally killed or subjected to terrible suffering to show the harsh truth of dark fantasy), but I didn't voice the thought.

Actually, I didn't want to say anything at all. It had been a long time since I felt such repulsive feelings, which was probably a good sign in a way: something of my personality still remained. Unfortunately, that didn't bring any joy. I looked up at the collapsing dream. Bells began to ring. The girl's eyes rolled back, her body relaxed. She took her last breath.

Dark fantasy. Did I already say I hate dark fantasy? Of course, this is just a convenient phrase that only roughly reflects reality, but it came as a great surprise to me that dimensions could differ so much from one another. Some are bright and light, as if ignoring the very fact of darkness, while others seem to consist of nothing else. This extends not only to the behavior of the beings inhabiting such worlds, but even to the surrounding laws and the fates of those beings. A strange, incomprehensible mechanism that makes even my sandy brains twist into a straw.

Why did I suddenly decide to tell you this? Dark fantasy—Hypnos wake me—loves to take already tragic fates and make them even more tragic. Just so it's never enough, just to make everything even bleaker, damn it! Is there not enough shit in our lives already, huh?!

The dream didn't vanish. That shouldn't be. Never in my memory had that happened before. The soul should move on to be cleansed and give the universe new life. That was how it always was. But the dimension had its own thoughts on the matter. Something very evil, alien to the world, and resentful of Lady Maria began to consume the dream.

The ringing of the bells grew louder, louder, even louder… I heard a piercing, infantile shriek reaching for the object of its hatred. Something powerful, many times more powerful than me (that word doesn't even apply to me!), having cursed Maria in life, now intended to seize her soul.

I needed to run. Run from this dimension as far as possible, hoping it wouldn't give chase. It simply wouldn't be able to reach me: it would get lost among the endless sands of the world of information. I had run away like that many times. Such is the nature of a minor but nimble dream spirit. Perhaps, thanks to my ability, I could be called relatively unique (not everyone has such a "visa-free" travel between dimensions, after all!), but unfortunately, I could only swim through information and toy with the dreams of the sentient. A minor, powerless dream spirit who had practically lost his "self". Sometimes it's so frustrating, honestly.

"Go to Yog-Sothoth's wet dream, sweetheart," I showed a sandy middle finger, covering the girl's entire body with myself. I hope "it" didn't hear me, but too late, I said it.

The shriek grew closer. Sandy nostrils caught a strange smell of fish and rot. Before I, accompanied by the sweetheart's body, was swallowed by the sand, I managed to see the terrifying image of a hideous overgrowth, holding its own placenta like a cleaver. Tall, taller than a normal human, he resembled an old man approaching the sunset of his life, but at the same time... he was like a newborn child. A miscarriage that refused to die.

I. Hate. Dark. Fantasy.

The world lost its shape for me. Only the sand of information remained, consisting of numerous dreams, thoughts, and desires. I wasn't at all surprised that the little guy followed us, hurtling like a boulder through all the oncoming information. I can already imagine the poor souls dreaming a pleasant erotic scene only to have this "handsome" fellow suddenly pay them a visit.

I couldn't dive deeper, beyond the boundaries of the dimension. Alone—easy. But not with baggage. Her form was too real, too heavy to glide freely through the sands as I did. My options weren't many: either try to put up a fight, which would immediately end in my dissipation, or try to hide somewhere in this dimension. And hiding was only possible if "it" lost me.

I'm sorry, I apologized in advance to the victims of my escape, lunging sharply "upward". In the world of information, there was no such thing as "up" or "down". Everything was too metaphorical. My consciousness still clung to human thinking in many ways, which meant that to rise to the upper layers of the dream world, I literally had to reach upward. Dream spirits didn't need to do this, but to be honest with myself, my colleagues don't exactly make use of the "visa-free" travel either, hanging around in their own dimensions. It's just me who's so curious, unable to sit still—Morpheus take me!

The shriek was very close now. The dreams became more tangible. It was no longer a mash of random information, but quite specific doors into other dimensions. Usually, entering them wasn't so easy: after all, the minds of the sentient aren't just some public thoroughfare. Well, so I thought. To my surprise, the first doors of a stranger's dream flew open with a light kick, as if the poor fellow's consciousness had no protection at all and his body had literally fallen into the dream world.

"What is happening?!"

The shrill cry of a nerd in round glasses, standing with flasks in hand, made my sandy face wince. An investigator, apparently. He wasn't at all bothered by the fact that he was in a stinking sewer, brewing a mysterious potion under the supervision of a giant worm wrapped around his body. Basically, a perfectly classic dream.

"If I were you, I'd wake up quickly, buddy," I rustled, looking around. "Count your fingers; you've got six. Hurry."

I plunged deep again, hearing the chime of approaching bells accompanied by the smell of rotten fish. Somewhere behind me, a soul-piercing scream rang out, followed by an equally loud, maddening otherworldly howl. Most importantly—a disgruntled one. The path into the poor fellow's dream vanished, signaling a not-so-pleasant awakening. I hope sun meditations help him restore his psyche.

The next door was kicked in just as easily, which surprised me more and more: it wasn't supposed to be like this. Strange assumptions began to arise in my sandy head, but I didn't have time to process them. Silly me, still swimming in the shallow end of ethereal matters—what can you do?

"Comfortable, Professor?"

An elderly man, reading a book, turned a pensive gaze toward me. Well-groomed, wearing stylish suspenders. It wasn't quite the Middle Ages anymore. Something like the Victorian era, if I wasn't mistaken?

"I beg your pardon?" the old man frowned.

To my great regret, he couldn't maintain his dignified appearance for long. Numerous curses hit my sandy ears; the book nearly fell from his hands. Yes, it was understandable: he was doing his reading on a staircase frozen against the backdrop of a full moon, right in the sky. A romantic, Morpheus take him!

"A bit of advice, Professor," I rustled helpfully. "Try to read the text in the book, and quickly. I'll give you a hint: it's gibberish instead of words."

I even allowed myself a bow, manifesting a sandy hat, under the influence of the romanticism of the professor reading what was, truly, a scientific work, before plunging deep once more. Unfortunately, the ringing of the bells and the smell of spoiled fish arrived faster. Another dream abruptly vanished. I hope his heart doesn't give out.

With every dream, I pulled further away from the annoying little guy. The flow of information tangled and twisted, filling with the emotions and feelings of an increasing number of sentient beings. The sweetheart clearly had something wrong with her head, and a head on one's shoulders is an important and useful thing in the world of information. You can knock down mountains or eat human souls by the dozens—if you don't find those mountains and people, you'll be left with nothing but your cleaver.

Unfortunately, sometimes brute force still won out: I couldn't completely hide from the beast. The little guy demolished everything in his path, slowly driving me to despair. I was getting tired. Dragging a soul stuck in a nightmare behind me was not easy at all. Even though it played seriously in my favor that entering the dreams of the sentient had become somehow too easy, I couldn't fully lose the brat. The creature fell back, giving me a bit more time for a breather, but it wasn't enough. And why is he so obsessed with the lady, huh?! What a persistent "younger generation" we have! Dimensions change, laws and fates too—but the youth is spoiled exactly the same everywhere! Injustice!

Numerous dreams flashed past me, whether it was the dream of a little girl lost in a huge city (I'm so sorry, little one), the dream of a sentry who continued to watch over his clocktower even in sleep, or the perverse fantasy of some dreamer: a stable job, a strong, close-knit family, faith in tomorrow. You actually find such dreamers even in dark fantasy, huh?

I already didn't know what to do. I'd never had such specific pursuits before. I tried to blur my sand with the rest of the information flow on the fly, but Lady Maria's bloody trail was still too noticeable even for me, let alone for a terrifying beast aimed at a soul he'd cursed! I needed help. Any help. Someone to intentionally distract the persistent child, giving me enough time to disappear. Or to pull me out of here altogether. A miracle. My mind understood that the chance of such luck was microscopic (especially in dark fantasy, Morpheus take it!), but for some reason, I still wouldn't let go of this soul that felt so familiar and evoked almost forgotten feelings.

And, to my great joy, the Lords of Dreams smiled upon me. In a way I couldn't have expected in my wildest dreams.

"And why is life so cheap to you, buddy?" I rustled tiredly.

It was a pub. A very small one, likely some minor family business. The pub was quite old already; it clearly needed repairs, but apparently, business wasn't going well. Well, otherwise I just don't see a single reason why its owner would slit his own throat! Still quite young, barely twenty if that; gentlemanly whiskers had only recently begun to grow, and his eyes were starting to lose the light of joy in life. Not completely—that usually happens by thirty! All bloodied, he stood at the bar, staring into the void. Apparently, he was waiting for customers.

I hate it. I hate dark fantasy, damn it!

And again: it shouldn't be like this. The dead moved on to the next journey; they didn't dream. It felt as if either a cataclysm had occurred and the dream had merged with the physical world, or some smart-aleck had intentionally broken the veil. Why? And more importantly—what would you even have to be to possess such power, Morpheus take him to task?

"Welcome to the Sand Bowl pub. What can I get you?"

I turned my sandy head thoughtfully, catching a slightly strange, double-meaning turn of phrase. After all, wandering through the Dream Realm, it's hard not to start perceiving information differently. The Sands' Bowl, then? Sands? That's a surname, right?

"Business isn't great, is it, kid? What's your name?"

I might have seemed like I was wasting time, but everything has its limit: I was too exhausted. The emotions and thoughts of a human directed at me—even if he was dead—could give me a bit of much-needed energy. The dead man opened his bloody mouth in surprise.

"Arthur… My name is Arthur… Yes… this cursed blood…"

A powerless malice flickered in the pub owner's voice. My sandy face frowned, which must have looked terrifying from the outside. Again. Again, that strange sense of déjà vu. I definitely caught which blood he was talking about. But I still didn't understand which one exactly!

"Cursed blood?"

The subject of this blood was clearly a sore spot for Arthur, causing the dead man's face to contort in animalistic rage.

"All of Yharnam started drinking it! No one cares about regular swill anymore! Our family business was destroyed! This foul blood, it doesn't heal! It doesn't heal!.. My father turned into a monster because of it! I saw it! I saw everything! The Healing Church, the hunters—they're all lying!!!"

The dead man screamed hysterically, beginning to beat his head against the bar, leaving more and more bloody marks with every strike. I frowned even more. Healing Church. Yharnam. Lady Maria. Hunters. It was all too familiar. Where could I have heard this?

"Your father started taking this blood?" I rustled softly.

"He got sick…" the dead man wheezed. "I… I thought that this blood… He didn't want it, but I… And then…"

The pub owner stepped out from behind the bar, going into the courtyard and leaning over a pot with a flower. I followed him.

"Now there will be no one to look after him… I… I'm starting to regret what I did…"

"Don't blame yourself, you did what you could, kid," I tried to support the boy a little. Although, I probably should have distracted him. In a normal case, I would have manifested a dream for him, but right now I had neither the strength nor the time for that. "Are you not afraid of me at all?"

This truly interested me. After all, my form was quite grotesque. A humanoid made of golden sand, making faces—not a pleasant sight. Even for dark fantasy. The dead man, however, seemed to fully realize what was happening. Corpses shouldn't have dreams. The bloodied poor fellow looked up at me, smiling peacefully.

"The moon is especially beautiful tonight…"

No. Not at me. Through me.

I felt something tighten inside me, turning around to face an especially vivid, unnaturally realistic image. From the deepest depths of my distorted consciousness, a memory finally emerged. Uncertain, timid, it seemed absurd even to me—the one who entertained a hibernating dragon that knights had long since stopped visiting: the princess grew old and died, and finding new princesses is a hassle and not worth the effort!

"The Moon… Presence?"

A huge, red moon, whose image had permeated not only the dream of the dead man but the dreams of all living beings, thinning the boundaries of the worlds so much that…. Perhaps it's worth a try?... No matter how impossible this thought seemed to me now, if the dream world truly has permeated the physical world, then I, while the boundary is thin…. The Lord of Dreams himself, or someone similar, won't come after me, a runaway minor spirit, right? No? Well, what does it matter, really?

I felt the chime of the bells and the smell of spoiled fish. There wasn't much time.

"I'm offering you a deal, Arthur," I rustled quietly.

Now the dead man's gaze was directed at me, not at the moon. The world began to crumble. A monstrosity emerged, clutching its own placenta like a cleaver. I hate dark fantasy.

"I just need you not to resist. Sincerely, do you hear me, Arthur?" my rustle became a bit more stern. "Give me your body, and in exchange, I'll help with your family business and pay a visit to the Church. I'll do everything in the best possible way. What do you think, kid?"

The angry Orphan of Kos screeched as only a newborn child could screech, lunging at me. No, not at me—at what I was now trying to protect from the terrible nightmare. The dead man opened his bloody mouth in surprise, then smiled unnaturally wide.

"Of course, sir!"

What a good kid, Morpheus put me to sleep. It should be illegal for someone like him to run a business.

The last thing I saw before the dream shattered was the face of the Great One swinging his cleaver. If he knew how to use even a fraction of his truly great powers, I would have been splattered across the beach, but fortunately, Uncle Sandman could still shake off the cobwebs and take candy from a baby. The sand emanating from my essence managed to spread through the shaky dream faster than the beast, reaching for the very top, beyond the dream, through the thinned boundary.

It probably sounds strange coming from a dream spirit, but….

I woke up.

…and as it turned out, possessing a corpse was not the best idea and I am a complete idiot….

***
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The pub looked horrific, and that's putting it mildly: a boarded-up door, as if old planks could actually protect anyone from overly curious monsters; a foul stench; a faint, barely noticeable light from almost extinguished lanterns; a few old tables and a bloody bar, under which a body lay.

Many in Yharnam had heard of the Sands' tragic fate: the mother died of the ailment while Arthur was still a child; the family business was held together solely by the father, who at some point also succumbed to the ailment, and even the healing blood could not save him from transformation. A transformation about which only uncertain rumors were circulating, suppressed by the hunters who "efficiently" solved all problems. Arthur should have followed the rest of his kin to the other side, thereby closing the pub's doors forever, but, as if in mockery….

The dead man abruptly opened his eyes, shook, and began to frantically wave his arms, trying to take a breath but unable to. Grabbing his throat, squeezing it with all his might, the possessed man, barely moving his legs, headed without hesitation into the room, frantically starting to turn out all the drawers. He knew exactly what he needed to find and where.

The insane gaze of the corpse's sand-colored eyes caught on a half-empty vial of blood. Arthur's last hope, which by all the laws of the genre had failed to bring salvation. A pale hand grabbed the vial, opened it, and without hesitation began to pour it onto the bloody throat, and then—to drink from the throat. To the very last drop. Neither Arthur nor his father would have been happy with such actions, but the new owner of the body simply had no choice.

The young man froze in place, taking a slow and extremely careful breath, then—an exhale, then another breath and another exhale. The body. It recovered so quickly that he almost didn't have time to feel it. Only a slight itch, and…. Echoes of sand flowing through his veins?

The possessed man pensively opened his brown eyes. There were many thoughts in his head, and so the first words, spoken in a still slightly hoarse, weak voice, were particularly poignant and majestic:

"The Lords of Dreams would laugh across the whole Realm if I kicked the bucket again right now…".

Spoiler: concept_art1

 

[Lemor]

Chapter 2

There is something... meditative about a deep clean. The leisurely sweeping, repairing the shelves (I was starting to get a bit carried away there), and one mustn't forget the dust that was simply everywhere.

The Lords of Dreams won't let their—not exactly most faithful—servant lie: I was enjoying this. Everything I did brought me pleasure.

I enjoyed scratching my slightly itchy neck.

I enjoyed the way I walked.

I enjoyed the way I breathed.

The way I worked the broom through the pub, sweeping away anything that even remotely resembled trash. And as for the dust—don't even get me started: I scrubbed every inch of the establishment, including the private room and the cellar where the liquid miracles were brewed.

I liked the way sweat dripped from my face. The way my muscles burned, begging the stranger who had taken over this body to be a little more careful with his new vessel. Feeling dehydrated, I greedily gulped down water.

Morpheus wake me, not a single drink I'd ever conjured in the dream world could even come close to plain, ordinary water.

I felt the blood coursing through my veins, my heart pounding, and my stomach growling—a visceral reminder that this body was hungry.

There were far too many sensations for a mere dream spirit. I'm certain that if I hadn't been human before—if I lacked self-awareness—I would have immediately pushed this body to its breaking point the moment I received such a precious gift.

Fortunately, I had enough sense not to act like some brainless possessed vessel with demonic tendencies (I consciously rejected that path, actually!). Instead, I could channel these simple joys into something useful, slowly navigating the flood of new-old sensations.

By the second half of the day, I felt much better.

"Lords of Dreams, why is this so delicious…" I thought, closing my eyes in bliss.

I'm willing to bet the smile on my face right now looks ghastly.

The most ordinary oatmeal with a splash of milk ignited a veritable explosion of flavors in my parched, sandy soul. I still remember how I used to shudder at the very thought of oatmeal, but I suppose I was young and foolish back then.

"It's good to be young and foolish…"

I opened my eyes, staring pensively at the oatmeal.

The awareness of where, how, and why I'd ended up here seriously soured my mood, preventing me from fully losing myself in the moment. To be honest, I was terrified by the sheer scale of the mess I had dragged my sandy self into, but it was too late to back out now.

"Hypnos, or whoever else is listening, why of all worlds did you give me the chance to find a body in this one?" I grimaced, setting aside my utensils.

As I grew accustomed to the vividness of the material world, my mind churned with thoughts. Inhabiting a real body helped long-forgotten memories crawl to the surface, forging connections I'd long since lost — in a real brain, not a sandy one (hooray!) — and greatly helped me navigate fragments of information.

Bloodborne. Damned Bloodborne! A long-forgotten game that had so unexpectedly burst into my sandy life.

Before I had the misfortune of drowning in the sands of sleep, I wasn't exactly a die-hard fan, but I was well-acquainted with the world and had finished the game more than once. Thus, I understood perfectly well the scale of the chthonic horror that Fate the Prankster had decided to drag me into.

Right into the—Morpheus take him—epicenter.

"Something needs to be done," I said, standing up from the table and heading toward the boarded-up door.

Arthur wasn't physically strong. While the kid hadn't been starving, he didn't engage in much physical activity either; he was a rather unimpressive stick with arms and legs. Because of this, I had to work up a bit of a sweat to pry off the boards and finally, with the chime of a bell, step out into the street.

"Gods, what wretched air," I breathed in admiration, squinting.

Tomorrow, I'll probably start turning my nose up at this smell, but right now, when everything well-forgotten and old has become new again…

Even the vile stench of the sewers, tightly interwoven with the bitter aftertaste of burning— as if in some cruel joke, mixing in the quite tolerable aroma of perfume and freshly baked bread—carried its own peculiar charm. A charm completed by the faint amber scent of blood, so thick and ubiquitous it seemed to have saturated every single house.

"I hate dark fantasy," I muttered habitually, letting out a lazy yawn and squinting with pleasure at so simple and living a thing.

Yharnam. A lovely little town that has seen people from all over the world flocking to it in recent years in search of healing. The world of this era was still quite poorly acquainted with proper medicine, so the news of a certain "sludge" capable of mending a broken leg, curing tuberculosis, and saving one from cholera—that's worth a lot. To be fair, even the world where I dropped my sand while still alive wouldn't have boasted a calm reaction to a panacea for all diseases.

Alas, as is customary in a world where shit is practically written into the laws of the universe, the consumption of blood did not pass without a trace, and addicted people slowly turned into beasts. Those who brewed this mess tried to suppress the threat—not by stopping the distribution of the healing poison, but with that very same healing poison.

Whether they intentionally closed their eyes to the obvious paradox or simply miscalculated their own strength, they created an organization of hunters who gulped down this blood by the liter: it's not so easy for an ordinary human to defeat an inhumanly strong beast.

Furthermore, as if that weren't enough, the power of the monsters varied greatly depending on the original strength of the human.

Given the nature of Arthur's family business, I even knew about a recently introduced tax on local establishments that served blood. The tax didn't mean the Church itself supplied it — no. It was paid simply for the fact of using the poisonous blood. Where and how it would be obtained was another question entirely. One can only imagine—in my case, very vividly, thanks to Arthur's memories—how thoroughly the Sands were repulsed by all these "trends".

"The pub is sitting on a time bomb," I muttered, watching smiling children pass by.

The streets had already managed to recover a bit from another nightmare night and were filling with people.

Despite all the horrors, the city was still flourishing, bearing little resemblance to the practically deserted, maddened nightmare from my memories. My curious gaze caught a thousand and one details.

And even if Arthur's memories had already given me more than enough, anyone would agree that living something firsthand will always outshine borrowed memory.

Women passed by in long skirts and hats, mostly carrying baskets.

The men preferred caps and vests; some could boast jackets — naturally, without fasteners. With a single glance, one could identify a ragamuffin, a drunkard, a craftsman, or a member of a higher class — scarce on this narrow backstreet on the outskirts of Slowly Yharnam.

My eyes did not spot any somber figures in coats hunting beasts. Either it wasn't their time yet, or they simply had nothing to do in this district.

"A wonderful place to start a business," I chuckled to myself, noticing a small pot with a flower growing right at the entrance to the pub. "And how did you ever survive the night, buddy?"

The flower, as if understanding me, drooped slightly in exhaustion. My smile grew warmer.

Since Arthur remembered the poor plant even in death, it would be very wrong of me to let it die. I'll need to water it a bit later. However, first, I wanted to get myself into some sort of order.

I turned and went back into the pub, beginning to rifle through the body's memories for a mirror and a razor. There were no problems with that. Critically examining the youthful face, I began to carefully—humming to myself—shave off the stubble. It didn't suit the current "him-me" at all.

I'll probably sound a bit arrogant and foolish, but I had no intention of running away. There were reasons for that.

First, I made a promise to the body's owner, already having a fair idea of what I was getting into when we struck our little deal. Besides — it will be interesting to see the Church and Byrgenwerth in person. In short, the city turned out to be in slightly better condition than I initially thought.

Second, I wanted to try and somehow influence the horror that awaited this city. After all, my sand carried a tint of golden light, not impenetrable darkness. It was a difficult but conscious decision—one I was quite proud of, by the way!—and I intended to be consistent in my choices. At least, I would try.

Third, the truly terrifying creatures capable of reaching my soul couldn't care less about Yharnam. I could go across the sea, and finding me wouldn't be all that difficult. To hide, I would have to give up the body and, dropping sand, flee this world. Been there, done that. I had no intention of giving up the body under any circumstances.

And after all, along with the body, there was someone else, and I wasn't about to abandon her to the mercy of fate! Not after all the effort and the gift from truly the most beautiful lady in the universe — Lady Luck.

And finally, fourth.

"Blood, blood, blood…" My brown eyes took on the color of sand, emitting a faint golden light. "Where else to get more of it than in Yharnam?"

My voice became slightly more shifting. The manifestation of my sandy nature was so insignificant that it barely affected the material world at all, but it was there. And thanks to the blood I'd drunk, the manifestation had become just a tiny, tiny bit stronger.

This world offered me not only a living physical body — which was a gift from above in itself — but also the chance to manifest my power beyond my native Realm, in the material world. The potential reward for success was worth any risk.

Casually extending my hand, I carefully nicked the tip of my finger with the razor, barely suppressing a smile at the new-old vivid sensation of pain as I allowed a small bead of blood to gather. It seemed like perfectly ordinary red blood, yet at the same time, it was somehow different.

I chuckled to myself, setting aside the razor and turning before the mirror. Fortunately, the hairstyle already suited me. It's good to be alive, damn it.

"Style must be chosen carefully, kid, not by blindly following others," I said, contentedly adjusting my vest.

It seems that helping Arthur's family business through traditional means won't work. While locals might have stopped by the pub before the mass distribution of blood, now customers were appearing only occasionally. Appetites have grown, the location of the Sand Bowl isn't exactly convenient or noticeable, and as for advertising — don't even ask. It's laughable, really.

Fortunately, despite the wretched starting conditions, the situation wasn't entirely hopeless. Not now that I have become the pub's owner, with all due respect to Arthur's efforts. I simply had more experience and opportunities in every sense.

The chime of the bell interrupted my thoughts, signaling that my first visitor had arrived. I became even more pleased, unhurriedly making my way from my-his modest quarters to the bar.

Surprise me, cursed dark fantasy.

"Welcome to the Sand Bowl pub. What can I get you?"

***
​

He looked slightly unusual: appearing to be in his thirties, quite large, with a long square jaw and a crooked nose. Broken at some point, most likely — and left to sort itself out, for reasons that needed no explanation.

Traces of cuts and burns on his hands; his eyes dark, flat. His shirt was sewn from coarse canvas, sleeves rolled up tight. Blood and grease stains on his trousers. One of those cases where a man's profession writes itself right on him.

With a slightly unsteady gait, he approached the bar and fixed me with a clouded, quietly hostile stare—as though I'd already wronged him somehow. Service work is the same across every era, every world—even the brightest of them. My smile, however, had no intention of going anywhere.

"Ale. Just ale, and plenty of it."

The rough, impatient bass told me a little more about how to handle this one.

The selection wasn't exactly vast. The pub's craft had been managed by father and son — and recently, just the son — so the range came down to ale, mead, and, when the cargo cooperated, which wasn't often, rum, wine, and tinctures. Most people came for the ale, or occasionally a bite to eat. For a small family operation, ale was practically overflowing — not that there were many customers left to drink it.

Without further questions, I grabbed the largest, heaviest mug Arthur owned, filled it generously from the barrel, and set it down before the dear customer with a certain theatrical flair. The man gave me a very expressive look, said nothing, reached into the pockets of his filthy trousers, and tossed a couple of pennies onto the counter. No prices were posted anywhere, but they were, broadly speaking, fixed — though lately, the growing appetite for old blood in everything had been pushing prices in directions of their own. Not that it applied to the Sands.

My smile only grew wider.

"Rough night?"

"Comedian," the man muttered, not particularly interested in conversation, and took a sip. "What is this swill, kid?!"

Arthur would have taken great offense at that — but unfortunately, the poor wretch had already had his time.

Staring pensively at the mug, and under the gaze of the man who was visibly thrown by such audacity, I plucked it from his hands and took a sip.

Barely held back a sound of satisfaction, though a slight squint escaped at the rush of pleasure. Hard to say about the dear customer, but for my sandy nature, the taste turned out to be something genuinely fine: not too strong, faintly sweet, with a pleasant bite of bitterness. Granted, I was far from particular at the moment, and any fresh sensation read as a positive — but outright swill and something passable were still two different things.

I licked my lips, meeting the gaze of the customer who had been on the verge of erupting. The moment he caught my eyes, whether he liked it or not, he pulled back slightly — swallowing whatever curse had nearly made it out.

What the customer was missing was plain enough. It showed in his reddened eyes, his disheveled hair, his trembling hands.

He was already giving way to the madness of the healing poison.

"Yeah, pretty mediocre brew," I agreed easily, leaning slightly toward the brute. "After the sweet taste of blood, everything else seems so… hollow?"

My voice grew a little softer, a little calmer, spreading through the pub like something carried on the air. The dear customer couldn't have consciously noticed anything strange — but the subconscious is a curious thing. It's always the subconscious of sentient beings I work with first, and only then do I begin any real conversation with the conscious mind. The Sandman's image is quite grotesque, after all — and it's always worth preparing the ground a little before showing up in full.

Even now, limited as I was — unable to draw on even a fraction of what I could command in a dream, and hardly distinguishable from an ordinary human — the mere tricks that seeped through from the dream world into the waking one would be enough.

For now.

The dear customer, yielding to the pull of that velvety, sympathetic voice, thawed a little. The question had landed.

"Yes… yes… Do you have… do you have any proper ale?" the dear customer said through gritted teeth. "I… I can't drink this regular swill anymore…"

Whether a brute or a beanpole, people aren't all that different on the inside. All it took was a glimpse of my grotesque inner essence, and the man faltered, shifting into a more business-like tone.

I chuckled.

"Alright, you're looking quite unwell, friend. I think I can offer you something special. Give me a minute."

I stepped out from behind the bar, casually snagging the dear customer's ale as I disappeared into my modest little den.

Finding the recently used razor, I drew the blade across the barely healed wound again without fuss, grimacing at the pain — starting to get used to it. A bead of bright red blood gathered on my finger. I watched it with a gaze that was almost childlike in its curiosity.

Bright red blood that, yielding to a fleeting touch of the Dream, began to lighten and take on a coarser, crumbling form. Like a tiny heap of gilded sand.

"Fight fire with fire…" I whispered thoughtfully, wincing at a wave of exhaustion. "I won't be able to do this very often. Not yet."

Neither Arthur nor his father would likely have been thrilled by what I was about to do — but I dare assure you, nothing bad was in my plans. The pale grains of sandy blood dropped into the mug, dissolving instantly, leaving the drink even paler than before. Taking the mug, I returned to the dear customer, who had begun to simmer again, and set the drink down in front of him.

Clearly dissatisfied with the service, the man took the mug and sipped — already planning, by the look of it, to hurl the ale at me with a curse and leave. But…

The brute froze mid-sip, the mug still at his lips, not quite understanding what had happened. Then he took another cautious sip. Then another, and another, and another — right up until the ale was gone.

The dear customer's eyes lost their former inflammation, his hands steadied, and even his breathing settled — noticeably calmer than before. I leaned lazily against the bar, feeling a rather unpleasant heaviness in my body, and wrought a soft smile onto my face — one without irony or mockery:

"So, feeling better?"

The grim-looking brute lowered his gaze, quickly swiping away an unexpected stray tear, then looked back up at me. His expression was weary, yet profoundly calm.

"I was wrong, landlord," the man said in a low voice, taking a slow breath. "Can I… can I get something off my chest?"

I raised my eyebrows expectantly.

"The Sand Bowl is always open for a story, friend. Go on."

The brute relaxed, even allowing himself a faint, fleeting smile.

"I… My name is Harry… Harry Bryce… I'm a butcher's assistant. Last night a beast broke into our shop; the hunters killed it… But the old master… he's disappeared…"

I frowned.

Harry's monologue quickly drifted, branching into a dozen tangled threads. I learned about the butcher shop just ten minutes away, about Harry himself—who'd been helping the old man since he was a lad—and about the master's habits. He was never the type to wander out on the night of a Hunt. When I asked if the old man had partaken of the blood, Harry seemed genuinely surprised, but nodded. The master was elderly and in dire need of treatment; he had turned to the Healing Church for a transfusion.

Obviously, the effect of the transfusion was far more rapid and terrible than anything the diluted blood in the swill could manage.

"Don't tell anyone you know who your old man was dealing with before he vanished. Understood?"

A scrawny kid barely twenty, owner of a ruined pub, would never have dared speak like that to his only customer — a man who could break him with a single blow. But Arthur was yesterday's boy. Not me. Uncle Sandman had shed a fair amount of his own sand before ending up in this place.

The tone of my advice brooked no argument. Like a stern but loving father, I spoke softly — but with undeniable weight. And Harry, without even realizing it, easily accepted this reality and nodded.

"Understood."

It seemed he was beginning to suspect something, but he couldn't quite formulate the thought yet. And he didn't need to. I watched my first satisfied customer leave, certain he would return. It was too early to talk about abstaining from blood — I might provoke him. I had to act consistently. Tonight, he would remember that people can have dreams that aren't only nightmares.

"Morpheus wake me, for some reason I feel like a villain," I clicked my tongue. All the influence of dark fantasy. Can't stand it.

I was just thinking about going to tend to the flower that had been waiting for me, but fate had other plans — once again confirming everything I'd said about hating dark fantasy.

The bell chimed. The door opened, and a hunter walked into my pub in the flesh. Everything about him screamed it: from the grotesque blade—something vaguely between a sword and a scythe—to the well-worn coat with its ragged edges, and of course the dapper top hat that nearly drew a respectful whistle out of me. I had more than enough information. I remembered him far too well to simply toss him out of my memory.

Into this pub, forgotten by all the chthonic gods on the edge of town, walked no ordinary person — but one of the key characters from the "game" that had burst into my sandy life.

Gehrman, the First Hunter.

And from the look on his face, I could tell he felt utterly wretched. A smile crept onto my face.

"Welcome to the Sand Bowl. What can I get you?"

"Are you glad to see your master like this, sweetheart?"

Lady Maria didn't answer, but she seemed to mutter something inarticulate and disgruntled. Lords of Dreams, she certainly hadn't expected that the "kind" and "good" Sandman, after hauling her soul out of the deepest, darkest hole, would mock her quite so openly.

Who said it would be easy, Lady Maria?

Spoiler: concept_art2

 

[Lemor]

Chapter 3

Gehrman had long known that something had gone deeply wrong within the Church. What had started as a noble pursuit to use the discovered Old Blood for the greater good—to show the world a miracle—had twisted into something horrific and loathsome, a madness that drove men out of their minds.

Lately, Gehrman found himself thinking more and more that Master Willem had been right, and that Laurence—and all those who had followed him, Gehrman included—had been fatally wrong.

And instead of trying to mend their mistakes, they had grown overconfident and pressed on regardless. Blinded by their discoveries, poisoned by the blood, they were now forced to face the consequences of their choices.

Laurence had already paid the price — transforming into one of the most hideous beasts imaginable before being cut down by his own followers.

Now it was Gehrman's turn. Gods above knew he would have preferred to turn into a beast himself. But fate, in its cruelty, had chosen a far more agonizing path — taking something far more precious than his own miserable life.

The First Hunter didn't know where he was going or why. His mind was a void.

The streets of the cursed city blurred past him one after another, and the scent of Old Blood — long since etched into his very bones — dogged his every step. It seemed there was nowhere left in all of Yharnam free of that foul stench.

Gehrman didn't even realize he'd stopped until he found himself in front of a pub. A small, forgettable thing — the kind of place the people of Central Yharnam would likely never know existed on the fringes of their world.

The First Hunter couldn't say what had drawn him in. Perhaps the solitary flower at the entrance. Perhaps simple chance.

Or perhaps the fact that, near this pub, the suffocating scent of blood felt just a fraction weaker?

Though in truth, he probably just wanted to get drunk enough to forget. If only for a moment.

The bell chimed as he stepped inside, paying no mind to his surroundings. A pub like dozens of others in Yharnam — nothing worth a second glance. The person behind the bar held no interest for him either — whether the owner or his son, a young man no older than twenty-three. Scrawny, well-groomed, short hair, warm brown eyes.

The lad smiled at him.

"Welcome to the Sand Bowl pub. What can I get you?"

Gehrman didn't stop to wonder why the owner was reacting so calmly to a hunter carrying weapons. He simply sat at the bar and fixed the boy with a dead stare.

"Give me the strongest swill you have. I don't care what it is."

The young man didn't seem at all surprised by the request, merely raising his eyebrows slightly.

"Times are lean for this house, Hunter," he said. "If you're looking for something more potent or cloying, you've come to the wrong place. But I do have something to offer. Mark my words — it will bring you ease.

Gehrman ignored the youth's tone, just as he ignored the fact that those last words felt… strangely convincing. He just wanted to forget. The rest of the world barely existed to him.

A full mug appeared before him as if by magic. An unheard-of level of carelessness for the founder of an entire branch of beast-killers — but perhaps, in this moment, it was justified.

How wonderful it would be if this scrawny boy turned out to be a beast and simply ended my misery…

Rummaging through his pockets without bothering to check the amount, Gehrman tossed some change onto the counter and drained the mug in a single draught. He was certain this was only the beginning of a long night of drinking. Taste had never concerned him — he had consumed far too much Old Blood for anything so ordinary to bring him pleasure.

This day, however, proved to be an exception.

"Oh Gods… Maria, what have you done…"

The First Hunter didn't even notice the tears beginning to fall from his eyes. For a fleeting moment, the grey, dull world seemed to flare with color — filled with vivid images of his beloved student. He knew they could never have been together; the gap in their age and status was far too wide for him to ever stand a chance. And she had been his student, after all!

But the old Hunter had lost his head regardless, and it was hard to blame him: Lady Maria had been a ray of light in the impenetrable darkness for far more people than just Gehrman. A beautiful, delicate flower that had bloomed in the foulest, most disgusting of swamps.

"Do hunters have trouble with women too?"

Pulling himself together, Gehrman looked up in surprise at the young man, who wore a faintly ironic smile. One might have thought he was mocking him — but in the warm brown eyes of the young landlord, whom Gehrman for reasons he couldn't name no longer doubted, there was only warmth.

"What is this drink, boy?" Gehrman frowned, glancing down at the empty mug.

There was a taste. A real, rich, mellow taste. A lightness, long forgotten, began to stir within the old Hunter.

"Arthur," the young owner said, leaning lazily against the bar. "The secret of the Sand Bowl. You won't be getting any more of it today — we're all out. Come back another day, old man."

The landlord's smile grew a little more strained, as if the secret of that flavour had been his own blood. For a moment, a flash of anger surged through the First Hunter — he wanted to lash out at the youth. But…

The spark vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by the suffocating void. The memory of Lady Maria. Too bright.

"Trouble with women …" Gehrman said, removing his top hat. "No… no… Something… else…"

"Is it really so different?" the youth chuckled. "I'm intrigued. Care to share? The Sand Bowl is always happy to hear a new story."

The ease, freedom, and sheer audacity with which the young man carried himself was plain to see — even to a man hollowed out by loss. And yet somehow, his peculiar manner wasn't off-putting. The relaxed posture, the friendly ironic smile, the soft gaze.

Gehrman felt as though their roles had been reversed — as if he were the green youth sitting across from someone far more seasoned.

And what youth doesn't want to share something important with an elder?

What was so strange about that?

"My apprentice, she…" Gehrman began in a lifeless voice. "She took poison…"

"I am sorry to hear it, friend," Arthur said, patting the surprised old man on the shoulder. "What was her name? Do you know why she took it?"

Again, the First Hunter wanted to be indignant. Too bold, too forward. But....

"I have my suspicions…" the Hunter gave in to the strange urge. "Maria… L-Lady Maria… She…"

He couldn't remember the last time he had been so candid with anyone. The words flew from his lips as if by magic. The broken Hunter felt as if he were in a dream, giving less and less thought to what he was saying or to whom.

The warm brown eyes that had watched him throughout the conversation seemed to shift in color, beginning to resemble the hue of sand. But not the sand he remembered from that godforsaken fishing hamlet — rather, the sand of a warm, sunlit shore.

He told the owner about how he had taken her as his student. How he had doubted at first whether she could handle the burden placed upon her. How proud he had been of her successes, and how he had admired the talent of such a truly gifted girl. How he hadn't noticed himself growing more and more attached to her.

Subconsciously, Gehrman knew he was telling this grateful listener things he shouldn't be saying — but it was too hard to stop.

Who thinks about what they say in a dream, anyway?

The pub owner hung on his every word, smiling with genuine warmth at Gehrman's fonder memories, gently drawing out words that Gehrman had never intended to speak — until the First Hunter realized…

He had long since ceased to speak of Lady Maria alone.

"…and do you still think Laurence was right?"

"He… he went too far. We… we were too arrogant. But now… now it's too late… I can no longer stop it…"

The Church had grown too large. Too many with a stake in it. The madness was unstoppable now. One could only delay it, push it back — and even that, the old Hunter was beginning to doubt.

"If anything can go wrong, it will…" the pub owner sighed, lost in his own thoughts. "You need a good night's sleep. You've had enough for today, dear customer."

The old Hunter exhaled, having long since forgotten that he had intended to drink himself to death. A good night's sleep. Laughable. He hadn't seen anything but nightmares for an age. Though Arthur was right about one thing: that single mug of wondrous swill truly did seem to have been enough.

"Customer…" Gehrman frowned, as if beginning to wake from a strange dream. "You think I'll be back?"

One look from the owner's warm, soft eyes was enough to know the answer.

The Hunter shook his head and slowly rose from the bar, making his way to the exit on stiff legs. Just as he was about to leave — the door swinging open to the chime of the bell — the owner's quiet, lulling voice reached him:

"Sleep well, Gehrman. The Sand Bowl values its dear customers."

Gehrman paused for a moment. Without looking back, he tossed a vial of blood to the startled owner, who caught it deftly. Something inside the Hunter told him he had done something right.

Perhaps for the first time in his godforsaken life.

Gehrman left the pub a bit faster than he intended, feeling a sudden chill run down his spine. His hunter's instincts shrieked, as if he had turned his back on some great beast — but the moment the door closed, the feeling vanished as if it had never been.

Just a mirage.

Gehrman turned to look back at the pub in surprise, his hand tightening around his blade. He knew something incredibly strange had just happened, but…

Dreams are rarely logical, are they?

"Oh Gods…" the old Hunter whispered, shifting his gaze to a perfectly ordinary flower.

A perfectly ordinary flower outside a perfectly ordinary pub, owned by a perfectly ordinary landlord.

He definitely needed to go and sleep.

***


​

If there was one thing I could praise myself for without false modesty, it was the ability to keep a straight face with a losing hand. Well, perhaps not entirely losing — I had managed to get what I wanted, after all. But still…

"Morpheus put me to sleep, I almost kicked the bucket…"

Any atmosphere of mystery or enigma dissolved as if it had never existed. I collapsed onto the bar, sweat pouring from my forehead — I'd bet anything I was paler than chalk right now.

Another drop of sandy blood dissolved in a mug of ale, followed by a conversation of constant, subtle, precise influence — it had all taken much more out of me than I'd anticipated. And yet, my mood was fantastic.

"You pleasantly surprised me, old man," I murmured, my eyes fixed thoughtfully on the blood vial.

Throughout the entire conversation, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was talking to a massive, weary beast yearning for the end — one that simply couldn't be bothered to react to my paltry tricks. As if to say:

Ah, dabbling in sorcery, are we? Do as you please. I am beyond caring!

The power hidden within humans was startling. The game had only given me a vague sense that hunters could turn up the heat—literally, with a flamethrower—but there's a difference between an abstract concept and feeling it on your own sandy, and recently physical, hide.

"I need to be more careful in the future…" I said, struggling to straighten up.

Especially with those the Great Ones have chosen to notice.

I wanted nothing more than to close the pub and rest, but even in sleep the workday wasn't over — so it was too early to relax. After catching my breath, I decided not to put off the important ritual any longer and went to water that poor flower.

I wasn't exactly an expert on plants, but Arthur's memory helpfully supplied more information about my new friend than I needed. The white columbine looked decent enough beside the pub — though, truth be told, a little lonely.

"Your friends aren't with us anymore, eh?" I huffed. "Don't worry, buddy — you won't be bored with me around."

Predictably, the flower didn't answer. What a shame.

The rest of the day passed lazily. I couldn't bring myself to go for a walk, so I spent the time resting and reading through the literature I'd found in the pub's stores. There wasn't much — the Sands couldn't exactly be called wealthy, especially in recent years — but they weren't destitute yet either. In short, there was enough to keep me entertained. For dinner, I made some eggs and nearly ate my own hand along with them.

The conversation with the old man had given me plenty of food for thought.

And not just food.

When darkness swallowed the street, I opened the vial of blood and drained it in one gulp with undisguised pleasure, closing my eyes. Humans might need hours to fall asleep — but that didn't apply to me. The moment my body found a comfortable position and my eyes drifted shut, my essence plunged into the depths of the dream world.

And not just anywhere — but into one of my most important and valuable new acquisitions: a personal dream.

Dream spirits never had dreams of their own. We were merely guests in the dreams of others. My brainless kin didn't even realize how limited we were. Fortunately, with the acquisition of a body, that problem was behind me.

And, I dare hope, it will stay that way.

I opened my eyes, realizing with no small amount of pleasure that I was in the pub. Or rather, its reflection in the dream — the interior noticeably larger than in reality. Everything was better maintained and more refined, as if a major renovation had been carried out, and even the oil lamps had been replaced with newer ones, giving off a soft, warm orange glow.

My perception had merged with Arthur's, giving birth to something truly fascinating.

"Do you like it here, sweetheart?"

Sitting at a table, Lady Maria turned her head toward me with a touch of annoyance. Just as she seemed ready to grumble again, she paused, lost in thought, and let out a sad sigh, lowering her head. She had apparently changed her mind.

Her collar was still stained with blood, her skin unnaturally pale, the light in her eyes dimmed — all clear signs of her condition. Lady Maria was dead, and she was more than aware of it.

"Why did you… save me, good Sandman?"

My form dissolved and reformed in front of her. Sitting across from the beauty, I smiled. Naturally, it was difficult to explain the true reason — but no one was forcing me to tell the whole truth.

"You were able to awaken long-forgotten, vivid feelings in me, Lady Maria. I couldn't abandon you."

This time I spoke not with the Sandman's voice, but with Arthur's. The lady's eyes widened in surprise.

"Is that… really the only reason?"

"Not the only one," I said seriously. "I also wanted to thumb my nose at that dreadful thing. We really showed him, didn't we?"

The unexpected joke made her eyes go wide as saucers. She froze for a moment, remembering what had happened — and then a quiet but wonderfully sincere laugh echoed through the pub. If only by a little, the light of life flickered once more in her dead eyes.

"You never cease to amaze me…" Lady Maria shook her head, drifting back into thought. "Do you… need me for something?"

The question was sudden, but entirely expected. She'd had enough time to more or less come to terms with her situation and, with my permission, observe what I was doing in the waking world. I couldn't exactly let her die of boredom here, could I? She had no doubt that I had plans.

"To begin with, I can't let you go in any case," I said, throwing my hands wide. "Until dream and reality are conjoined again, you will be safe here — the Great One's child shouldn't be able to feel you. But the moment your soul leaves this dream, it will immediately scent its prey. I don't want my hard work to go to waste."

As my slip of the tongue suggested, when dream and reality merged again, that grumpy little brat might try to find us once more. We would need to be ready by then. It seemed Lady Maria understood this — and her guilt only deepened.

"I do not deserve such care, kind Sandman," she said softly. "I… I have done too many terrible things…"

I rolled my eyes, dissolving into sand and sweeping in business-like circles around the startled girl.

"Sweetheart," the familiar sandy notes returning to my voice, "don't you think that instead of blaming yourself, it's better to look to the future and think about how to fix the situation?"

Before Lady Maria could even open her mouth, I continued:

"You probably think you can no longer help those who suffered, right?"

I pointedly raised my sandy eyebrows.

"Well, you're right."

Lady Maria, looking like a little girl, nearly sniffled.

"But!" I raised a sandy finger, which almost immediately crumbled. "What's stopping you from helping others? Dying is always easier than pulling yourself together and actually doing something!"

"I…"

"You know," I said, ignoring her whisper entirely, "I wasn't always glowing with gold."

My voice filled with drama and exaggerated sorrow.

The hunter's mouth dropped open as she stared at my gold-tinted mug. I gave a business-like nod.

"I had a wild youth myself, beauty. In my worst years, my sand had turned as black as soot." I winced, unwilling to revisit that period of my existence.

"W-why?"

From the curious look in her eyes, I could tell I'd piqued her interest and drawn her gaze.

"Just as humans need energy for life, so do spirits," I said with an air of one who knew. "Only, unlike humans, we don't feed on venison with berry sauce…"

"Oh Gods, so it was you who sent me that dream back then!"

Lady Maria realized the terrible truth. Catching herself behaving in a manner unbefitting of her, she clamped her mouth shut and lowered her gaze in embarrassment. Apparently, death had made her a little more uninhibited. Understandable, really.

"…but on the emotions directed at us."

I fell silent for a moment, sinking into some very dark memories. In the early days of my wanderings through the dream world, I didn't even understand what I was or what I had become. And I certainly didn't know how to maintain my ephemeral existence.

Only when precious memories began to slowly leave me along with my own sand did the belated realization dawn upon me that I had to do something.

To my credit, I found a way quickly.

Whether guided by the Lords of Dreams or simply running on some basic instinct, I managed to sneak into some poor wretch's dream and terrify him. I distorted his dream beyond recognition, showing myself in full grotesque glory — etching my image into the mind of my random victim, seemingly for the rest of his life.

For a long time afterward, that lad fed me with his fear, remembering me every single night. Wandering through the world of ideas, I felt myself becoming more complete and aware as I consumed the horror directed at me. Negative emotions were easier to harvest than positive ones. Who could resist such a cheap way to not only preserve oneself but to grow stronger?

I succumbed to the temptation, spending a long time doing nothing but sending nightmares. I only realized the consequences of my little 'pranks' when I had nearly lost myself — turning into a chaotic, uncontrollable nightmare saturated through and through with darkness.

The Lords of Dreams are my witness, I had to work incredibly hard to become even conditionally neutral again, let alone find any light. Easy power simply wasn't worth losing myself and becoming just another monster, of which there were already more than enough in the universe.

Lady Maria listened with bated breath, occasionally covering her mouth with her hand. I knew I had struck the right chords of her soul — and so, by the end of the story, I felt particularly satisfied as I resumed my human form with business-like efficiency.

"As for your usefulness," I said, not forgetting her question, materializing a hat on my head under her startled gaze, "you know Yharnam well — especially the Healing Church. And, unlike me, you're not half bad with a blade."

Or perhaps more than just 'not half bad'.

"I am far from omnipotent," I smiled. "We will return to this question soon. I look forward to your help."

I leaned in unexpectedly toward the startled lady and adjusted her collar. The blood-stained fabric became like new, cleared of any evidence of her demise. Lady Maria, seemingly realizing I was treating her like a little girl, bristled.

I huffed contentedly and headed for the exit. I had a promise to keep, a bit of scouting to do — and, just as importantly, I needed to suppress the arrogant beast that had awakened after consuming the blood.

I turned back to Lady Maria, who was watching me go, and tipped my hat.

"Bon appétit."

The door opened behind me, and my crumbling body turned to sand, swept away deeper into the mists of the dream. I daren't even imagine how that dramatic exit looked to the beauty. Regardless, she now had a more important task before her: a materialized dish of venison with berry sauce. Even more delicious than the first time — the experience of the waking world had proven extremely useful.

Before the dream world swallowed me entirely, I caught the sound of some slightly disgruntled grumbling at the edge of my consciousness.

We had certainly gotten to know each other a little better.

Spoiler: concept_art3

 

[Lemor]

Chapter 4

The door to someone else's dream felt a bit more fragile than before. What used to require significant effort could now be breached — if not with a gentle nudge, as it was during the dream's bleed into the waking world, then certainly…

With about five or six solid kicks?

I knew that the voluntary acceptance of my power in the physical world would reflect in the realm of dreams. Even when separated, dream and wakefulness remained entwined; one could never truly escape the influence of the other. Usually, of course, this manifestation was subtle — but my case was anything but usual.

Both Harry and Gehrman had accepted the blood containing my essence of their own free will, surrendering to a sudden rush of feeling.

As long as a sliver of my power remained within them, I would always find them. I would always have an easier path into their dreams — the ability to influence, or the chance to plant a seed of suggestion. Granted, since there was barely a drop of that blood involved and the effect was rather temporary, a "free pass" into their minds was still out of the question. To save my strength, I'd have to do this the old-fashioned way.

I rolled my shifting shoulders.

"Let's see, butcher's assistant, what sort of nightmare is haunting you tonight…"

How does a feeble spirit bypass a barrier and enter another's dream without busting a gut? Suppose a fledgling dream-wraith has already learned to swim through the currents of information and can consciously shape doors to other people's slumber. That in itself can be quite an ordeal for less sentient or skilled creatures, let alone finding a specific dream (the Orphan of Kos must have felt that on its dead, Great One hide!). But let's assume the dream is found.

What then, one might ask?

Then, one must begin to… listen.

With all possible tenderness and precision, you touch your sandy essence to the entrance of the dream, dissolving into it. The door belongs to the dreamer; it projects the information bleeding from the depths of a sentient mind's subconscious. I listened to that information — to the hue of disordered emotions and thoughts — slowly tuning myself to the right frequency.

I had a fair idea of what was happening inside.

The rancid stench of rotting meat dominated all other senses. There were the erratic, heavy thuds of a cleaver, distant cursing mixed with whimpers and growls. Though still faint, nearly inaudible, the growling was prominent enough to demand attention. The information gathered was more than enough to move to the next step: good old-fashioned deception.

My sand began to deform, completely restructuring itself.

I was no longer the Sandman — I was a foul pile of putrid meat, virtually indistinguishable from the one inside my dear client's dream.

A strong, sane mind is harder to trick, but the same couldn't be said for a man already losing his wits to the will of cosmic entities — especially one who had taken my power into himself. The door didn't swing open, but I began to seep through it as if no door existed at all.

After all, I was part of the dream now. Why would the door keep me out like some stranger?

The flickering world took shape, plunging my shite-weary soul into yet another unpleasant vision.

A damp, dark basement. The space itself was shifting, much like my own sand — the dream was highly abstract, with no trace of structure or semblance of order. A faint light pierced the gloom from somewhere, but in this case it was more a curse than a blessing: it allowed one to see the surroundings. The dream perfectly mirrored its owner's state: chaotic, jittery — unstable, in a word.

Mounds of meat—entire mountains of rotting flesh—clogged the poor bastard's dream. An unprepared mind would have been shocked in the worst sense of the word. I was part of that mountain.

I gave off the same stench, had the same texture, the same form — the same taste, if necessary. With every moment spent in the dream, I analysed the environment, adopting the form most natural to Harry's subconscious.

In the very centre of this unfolding nightmare stood its formal owner, butchering the entire pile. I could see the rage and nerves in the butcher's assistant — he couldn't seem to finish, looming over a human body — the obviously source of all this mass.

He looked about fifty, maybe a bit older. There was no need to guess who it was: the old butcher was bound to haunt the lad, just as the inner beast wouldn't miss such a prime opportunity to erode my client's will.

Harry didn't want to be doing this. He was scared — unbearably so. His subconscious was screaming at him that something was wrong, but…

Hypnos, how many people actually stop to think about the what, how, and why of their actions in a dream?

"Why don't you ever end, old man… Why… why… why… Damn it all…"

Harry's voice was thick with despair. His axe blows grew sharper, more frantic; shards of rotten meat sprayed across the dream-space.

Quite the dream.

I was in no hurry to reveal myself, continuing my observation. In a normal case, I could have started working already, but now it was worth lurking a bit and waiting for…

Shall we say, the "competition" to show itself.

Fortunately, the competition didn't keep me waiting.

A low growl, echoing from the darkest corners of the dream, didn't surprise me — it only piqued my curiosity. The creature grew bolder, gradually emerging from the shadows and taking the form of a hideously distorted wolf. I sharpened all my senses. It was considerably less cautious than I, unafraid of drawing attention. The faint snarl, growing louder, coming from the most dismal, lightless part of the cellar, was irritatingly bold.

The beast knew Harry couldn't get rid of it. After all, it was part of him. Part of him — and yet not. If the butcher's assistant woke up and nothing came of it? So what? He'd just fall asleep again, and it would try once more.

And then he'd take more blood.

And then plunge back into the nightmare.

Then again, and again, and again…

Until his will finally buckled.

From the very first sip of blood, I had fully felt why it possessed such a miraculous effect. Even from the game, I knew that the Old Blood carried the will of the Great Ones — a fragment of cosmic entities' power. Even diluted blood, stripped of nearly all its properties, could still work a miracle for mere mortals in the most horrific sense. Hunters with strong wills could resist the beast, but it was only a matter of time. The more blood in the system, the stronger the alien will became.

There was no panacea — unless, perhaps, some other Great One suddenly decided to help a foolish human.

At least, that's how it was until I arrived.

I wasn't a Great One, and I certainly didn't consider myself anywhere near those creatures — but as luck would have it, working with information was my direct speciality. Dreams carry imprints of emotions, thoughts, will, motives, ephemeral desires, and basic instincts. Morpheus wake me, the Dream Realm was a literal dumping ground for everything imaginable, with all due respect to its Lords.

So, if a foreign will wasn't strong enough, I could certainly help.

The sand that had taken the form of rotting meat began to shift again, slowly approaching the dreamer — beginning to envelop his body with the utmost delicacy, replacing his clothes and, most importantly, his axe. Thanks to the blood he'd taken in reality, he didn't find these bold actions "wrong" or "annoying." My essence was already familiar to him; he had accepted it and subconsciously trusted it.

With another convulsive swing of the axe, the startled Harry's arm was guided to the side. He nearly tripped over the flesh of the old butcher — but with my slight assistance, he neither fell nor lost himself to the depths. The dream didn't shatter, but the butcher, breaking out of the endless cycle, became a bit more lucid, looking around in surprise.

And he couldn't miss the still-vague but quite visible figure of the snarling beast.

"Beast!"

Harry cried out in terror, nearly toppling backward, but…

"It's just meat, Harry. Butcher it."

My dear client suddenly felt a surge of strength in his axe. The dream trembled, but held. The weapon in the assistant's hands began to glow, illuminating the nightmare cursed by less-than-benevolent gods. The beast, born from the remnants of a foreign will, as if sensing what I intended to do, lunged at the man, aiming for his throat, but…

With a sickening, squelching sound, the light-infused axe buried itself in the head of the forming creature, snatching away its last hope. That wasn't me — he just had a lucky swing!

"See…" my voice whispered softly, encouraging the dear client. "You're doing well. Just meat, Harry… Butcher it…"

The butcher didn't need a second invitation. Now without any help from me (none at all, cross my heart!), feeling a rush of power and confidence, the brute let out a thunderous roar and threw himself at the beast. Following my kind advice, he began to butcher the carcass in the most brutal sense of the word. Hacking and slashing, breaking and crushing bone.

Lords of Dreams, it bore little resemblance to actual butchery — but that was all for the better!

This small victory wouldn't free him from his blood addiction. After all, this was… let's say, treating the symptoms rather than the cause. But at least a vital step had been taken.

My influence on the dream was gradually growing. Sand spread throughout the dream-space with every new swing of the axe, altering the surroundings. I felt virtually no resistance from the owner — much to my satisfaction. The mountains of flesh began to evaporate as if they had never existed. The dismal cellar began to expand and warp. A clear sky appeared, a warm sun, and a flower meadow so beautiful it was beyond anything a human mind could conjure.

The blood-drenched butcher only came to his senses when almost nothing remained of the beast's carcass. Breathing heavily, his smile was broader than ever. His gaze was filled with a life previously unseen, and the dream itself became far more stable and… peaceful.

Though, of course, my own contribution played its part — to be fair.

The man, realising how drastically the dream had changed, dropped the axe in surprise—it crumbled into golden sand—and began to stare at the open vista before him. Most likely he had never seen anything like it in his life, as if he'd stumbled into a true fairy tale.

"Oh, Gods…"

"You did well…" I whispered contentedly. "The Sand Bowl looks after its dear customers. Remember that well, Harry…"

Harry turned his head in surprise, catching a glimpse of my smiling human figure in the distance. I pressed a forefinger to my lips, then crumbled into golden-hued sand.

Having emerged from the other's dream, I felt my essence shiver with pleasure. Relief, joy, a faint sense of melancholy, and gratitude — mixed with the sweet aftertaste of…

Let's call it "veneration."

We are what others perceive us to be. We could think the most horrific thoughts, but if everyone was convinced we were akin to a God of light, then that is what we would become. Sooner or later. It was only a matter of how many people were steadfast in that belief.

"I'll never get tired of this," I whispered contentedly, looking back at the door of the dreamer's mind. It no longer reeked of rot, but bore the scent of newly blossomed flowers.

However, it was too early to relax. Another dream awaited me. And I knew it would be much more difficult.

I don't think I need to clarify that, unfortunately, I was right.

***


​

"Everything turned out much worse than I imaginedn…" I whispered soundlessly.

Gehrman's dream was remarkably vivid, packed with detail. The surroundings were familiar to me, though not exactly as I remembered from the game.

It was the Workshop.

Seemingly small, yet it held everything: shelves lined with numerous books, strange jars, statues, candles, and wondrous tools. And I was all of it, having permeated the dream.

I was the candles that would never go out. I was the old rug on the floor. I was the ceiling and the walls.

There was no real need for this — Gehrman himself couldn't have cared less. I could have appeared in my true form and he likely wouldn't have blinked. But in this case, I wasn't hiding from the dreamer.

A gargantuan monstrosity, which by all laws of logic and sanity shouldn't have fit in the Workshop, not only fit but was sprawled inside — making no effort to conceal itself from the dream's host. The creature didn't attempt to attack the Hunter. It just lay there. The beast stared at Gehrman with an unblinking gaze, making me feel… let's say, a touch nervous.

Gehrman himself, paying no mind to the beast as if it were just part of the furniture, sat at a writing desk, meticulously scribbling away. And I could see what it was.

It was a project — a stream of disordered thoughts that would likely see the light of day. The more I read, the more I winced. Dark fantasy. It never changed.

The skeleton of the future Doll, the foundation, could be made from the bones of Lady Maria herself, or… donor samples. The muscle-and-tissue stuffing could be procured from the Healing Church hospitals. Finding clothes would be even easier. He was planning every detail. He intended to create a Doll as realistic as he possibly could.

One might have thought the Hunter's dream wasn't a nightmare at all — but no. It was a nightmare. A nightmare far more terrifying than Harry's. Right now, the old man didn't resemble a killer but rather a dedicated scientist. Mad, and consumed by grief. My power had helped him a little, true — but it was a fleeting moment of relief that I intended to prolong slightly. And nothing more.

Dreams almost never broke through into reality. The vivid dreams I sent were but a flash of joy, of relief, that would soon be crushed by wakefulness again.

The bored dragon might not have wanted to wake up, knowing that all the dreams I sent would vanish upon his awakening. The deal with the Moon Presence would inevitably be struck. I already saw that I could in no way influence that. Perhaps even before entering the dream—while talking to him in the pub—I already had that understanding.

I didn't come here for that.

"Staying up late again, Master?"

The engrossed Gehrman flinched, and the dream trembled with him. The monster raised its head in surprise, tilting it. It seemed slightly taken aback by my audacity. Confirming its startling passivity, however, it didn't attack — focusing instead on the main actor: Gehrman.

The old man, reflexively covering the paper with his hands, turned his head and saw the one person he least expected to see in his dream.

Lady Maria.

Or rather, just her phantom.

"Y-you aren't real…" the man whispered with a parched throat.

How perceptive.

The golden-lit phantom only smiled at this, performing a curtsy. Her hunter's attire had been replaced by an ordinary, if slightly ornate, dress befitting a common aristocrat.

"Is that really so important right now?" the girl laughed brightly, standing right in front of the monster. "Can you spare me a moment?.."

The phantom smiled in a way the real Lady Maria probably never would have. The old Hunter began to soften before my eyes — and with him, the old Workshop, and even the monster, which unexpectedly rose and took a step back. The dream swelled with color, warmth, and a rush of genuine emotion.

Unfortunately, I couldn't afford to take extra risks or draw unnecessary attention I likely wouldn't be able to grant him such visions dreams again in the near future. But at least — since he had somehow stumbled upon my pub and become a dear customer — I could ease his burden a little, plant a faint light of hope in the deepest recesses of his subconscious. It was the most a feeble spirit like me could do.

For now, at least.

I left the old Hunter's dream feeling a touch frustrated — though I knew how to lift my spirits. I had already seen two monsters born within men. One I'd had beaten down by another's hands. The second, had it been aggressive, would likely have devoured me or at least driven me from the dream.

But there was one more beast I absolutely had to see today. And that creature was inside my own new body.

***


​

Delicious. So delicious! The thought haunted Lady Maria. Oh, Gods, how delicious it was!

An exquisite combination of wild, rich, slightly sweet meat with bright, tart notes of forest berries. The firm texture, the slightly metallic aftertaste that set it apart from familiar beef or pork. In the sauce, Lady Maria could detect the flavour of unusual cranberries, blueberries, or currants — a sour yet sweet taste, so real and multi-faceted that the girl could hardly distinguish it from the waking world.

She didn't know how long the Good Sandman had been watching her. But clearly long enough to study her — to crawl into the deepest recesses of her subconscious. All with her unspoken permission. After all, she no longer cared.

The faint, satisfied smile vanished from her face, leaving only a cold indifference. She looked up at a strange lamp, unlike anything she had ever seen. The interior of the pub was unlike anything she had ever encountered — alien, as if from a completely different time and dimension.

Much like the Good Sandman himself.

The one who had been able to kindle a faint light of hope in her and restore her faith in the existence of Gods of light, hidden behind the terrifying, foul, mind-shattering Great Ones who had existed in their world long before them. Great Ones whom they—pathetic mortals steeped in curiosity—deserved.

"Good Sandman…" the dead girl whispered in a lifeless voice, neatly wiping her mouth with a helpfully manifested napkin. "Please — grant us a fate that we, slugs mired in insatiable curiosity, do not deserve…"

The Good Sandman's dream trembled, crumbling into golden sand; from all sides, the shrill roar of a beast began to echo. A ghost of a smile touched Lady Maria 's deathly-pale lips.

In exchange for just one promise of an undeserved fate, she was ready to give everything.

And something told her this applied not only to her, Hunter Gehrman, the suffering patients, the corpses from the fishing hamlet, or the Queen of her cursed line — but to all of Yharnam.

And even to that which lay beneath it.

Spoiler: concept_art4

 

[Lemor]

Chapter 5

I'm certain that if someone walked in right now and caught that insufferably smug smile on my face, they'd think the poor landlord had been possessed by demons. Again. Though I might argue with an imaginary customer about the "demons" part, my joy was entirely sincere and well-founded:

"Turns out, nipping a problem in the bud before it grows into something dangerous is rather satisfying..."

I squinted contentedly, leaning lazily against the bar.

The morning was off to an excellent start. The explanation for my state was quite prosaic: power. I could feel it flowing through my veins along with the blood, granting a sense of unprecedented airiness, lightness, and vibrancy. Nothing in the dream world had ever come close.

Before letting my mind rest—and having seen what the inner beast could become—I decided to be rid of my own.

Of course, some might pointedly observe that the Sandman had gone quite mad to have ever doubted whether he should, but, strangely enough, I did have my reasons.

For one, I was certain I could keep the inner creature under control—if not for as long as I pleased, then at least long enough for the body to age and die several times over. An exaggeration, surely, but the point stands.

If an ordinary human could resist the beast for a long time on sheer will alone, then for me the task was trivial. Morpheus wake me, if anyone dares try to lord it over my new body, ha! I'll fight for it more desperately than the foulest of demons!

For another, I had no certainty that the power wouldn't vanish along with the creature. After all, the secret of the alluring blood lies in an echo of will, does it not? The beast was born from it, so it stood to reason that the creature was its focal point of power. For most hunters, at any rate. I well remembered that in the game, transformation into a beast granted former humans greater strength, literally changing their form. I was curious whether this... foul will could be turned to my advantage.

To be honest with myself, I'm no warrior, nor a master of any martial art—and the body, with all due respect to its original owner, wasn't the strongest. Controlled transformation with a sharp boost in strength could have compensated for that weakness and made me considerably more combat-ready—true gold in this world—but...

Having seen how the beast could develop, my bravado took a rather sharp dive. I winced.

I hadn't noticed myself succumbing to temptation, forgetting the essence of a minor dream spirit. I'd played too freely with the real world, grown too self-assured after seeing characters from what was, admittedly, not an ordinary game. Just a game, right? Even spirits whose very trade is deceiving perception are prone to such illusions. To say nothing of blood that intoxicates even the steadiest of minds.

Fortunately, awareness came early. The creature, only just beginning to form, was crushed—and it won't be given so much as a hint of a chance to appear again. The reward for making the right choice came in the form of the beast's will, which hadn't fully dissipated, merging with my own. The Lords of Dreams won't let me lie, this "partially" felt as though I'd been gulping blood by the litre.

I won't be moving mountains in the waking world anytime soon, but at least I now had a faint confidence that some irate hunter wouldn't chop me to pieces... quite so easily.

Though the most important thing right now wasn't even that—but the fact that I could share my power a little more often. For the scaling of my little business, that mattered a great deal.

"I believe I wanted to take a walk?" I murmured pensively, glancing at the solitary door.

If anyone wants to come in, I certainly won't be losing much. A matter of one or two customers, nothing more. I'd say for a week or two there's no need to fret, though it's best not to drag things out. The former owner's memory suggested that while the licence to sell swill wasn't a concern just yet, major problems regarding land and excise taxes on that very swill could arise quite soon.

"The more I dig through your memory, old friend, the more I wonder how you ever managed to stay afloat with taxes like these..."

I adjusted my top hat, pleased with my appearance. Seems I've stumbled onto that age-old question.

Almost everything I wore had once belonged to Arthur's father, making it slightly oversized—hopefully only for now—but overall it sat well enough: a dark frock coat, a waistcoat, a white shirt, and trousers. I'd have liked a cape, but the weather didn't quite call for it. The rainy season was coming soon enough, so there would be time to make up for it.

I tapped my cane.

"And what was it about this look you didn't like?"

Arthur was a simple lad, occasionally unkempt—within reason!—not overly concerned with how he appeared to others. And I can't even say that's a major flaw. Having one's own opinion and not worrying about the gaze of strangers is not the worst quality.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, I was different. A long existence as a dream spirit had forged a mindset that placed the thoughts and emotions of the beings around me above my own. What they thought mattered more than what I thought—within reason, of course, but still.

I am the assassin who fumbles his dagger, allowing the victim of a nightmare to strike back.

I am the passing stranger who extends a hand at precisely the right moment.

I am the skiff drifting between the rocks, one that will never betray its boatman.

I don't shout about being nearby, yet I remain in plain sight and gladly make myself known.

Stepping outside, I looked up at the overcast sky and drew in the less-than-pure air with a grimace. The perception sharpened by the blood only made matters worse.

"As I thought, the joy ended quickly," I sighed, turning my attention to an equally forlorn flower, clearly pining for sunlight. "I need to give you a name... How about Fred?"

The flower didn't answer. I understood perfectly.

"Doesn't suit you, does it? Agreed," I squinted. "Perhaps Albert? No? Too stuffy, I concur. Then we'll settle on Fred. Or maybe Mike? No, Mike definitely won't do..."

It had started as a joke, but I got rather carried away. Leaning over the flower, I examined it closely. I wanted something a touch more distinctive than plain old Fred—with all due respect to Freds everywhere.

I didn't notice myself beginning to speak quietly.

"Hard to accept that you can't escape this place, isn't it? Do you know what a thalamus is, my friend? Unfortunately, you lack a brain—but for your information, it's a rather important region of one, responsible for both motor functions and the sleep-wake cycle. And perhaps something else; I don't remember it all that well," I admitted honestly, somewhat spoiling the drama of the moment. "Since we're in dark fantasy, we'll pick a fitting name. Welcome back to this dreadful world, Thalamus."

I brought my thumb to my mouth, bit down with a wince, and let a willing bead of blood drop onto the flower. The moment it touched a petal, it was absorbed instantly. The flower, as if emboldened, lifted slightly, filled with life.

Flowers didn't dream—didn't even possess what one might call "consciousness"—but they were alive, all the same. Once, I had found myself in the dream of a flower that had somehow managed to gain consciousness. And, I must say, that dream was quite... special. It would be interesting to see how my friend responded to his little dietary supplement, and whether he might develop a little. He'd have plenty of time for that.

Probably.

I smiled contentedly, running a finger gently over a petal. As long as I was around—he wouldn't need the sun.

Turning, I set off in a random direction through the narrow streets, quickly blending into my surroundings. To be honest, the walk wasn't only to satisfy my inner tourist—it was also simply to think. Specifically, to organise the most important information at my disposal. And something else besides, but more on that later.

"I wonder how events will unfold in this reflection of Bloodborne..." I murmured softly, looking around with curiosity.

One of the key events I remembered well was the burning of Old Yharnam, when the scourge had grown completely uncontrollable. Not hard to forget, given that Old Yharnam is a location unto itself. It hadn't happened yet, but something told me that... "event" wasn't far off. Why did I think that?

In the game, there was a character with the colourful name of Djura, who guarded the turned people in Old Yharnam. His dialogue made it clear he knew exactly who the player was and why killing them was useless. So, if reality were even halfway close to the game, the Hunter's Dream already existed—which didn't quite fit the current timeframe. Once it appeared, orienting myself would become considerably harder, since nothing would have stopped Djura from learning about the Hunter's Dream even after the burning of Old Yharnam. But for now, the working theory held.

How much time did I have before Gehrman struck his fatal deal? A month, two, three? Perhaps a little more? Besides, no one said Djura would be the first or second hunter to receive that dubious immortality—and information from the game shouldn't be taken as gospel. Too many variables, all told.

"Oh?"

I reflexively quickened my pace, reaching out to catch a flowerpot just as it was about to come down on a passing girl's head. Looking up, I saw an old woman clutching her mouth in horror, and gave her a friendly smile.

"It's quite alright, ma'am!"

I looked down at the wide-eyed girl. Still in her prime, no older than twenty, with prominent freckles on her face.

"You should be more careful next time, sweetheart. The world certainly won't be any the better off for the senseless death of such a beauty."

Ignoring the girl's renewed surprise, I silently set the pot on the ground and vanished into the crowd almost instantly, stopping just short of glancing up at one of the buildings, feeling how tightly I gripped my cane.

Damned, godforsaken world. How could I have ever put "This" out of my mind?

The higher ranks of the Healing Church interested me no less. If memory served, after the first Vicar, his place was either taken by Vicar Amelia, or she came later—but one thing I was certain of: she was in the game, and moreover, the player had to fight her. Like the first Vicar, she eventually succumbed to the blood and turned into a beast.

Well, who would have doubted it.

"Oh? And who do we have here, playing clever?"

I sharply caught a lunging boy's hand as it reached for my pocket. It seems my appearance stood out a bit more than I'd thought. Well, my own fault.

"L-let go!"

The boy tried to wrench his hand free, but failed. Nobody paid his cry any mind—hardly surprising, really. How many little pickpockets were running loose through the city? And how much noise was there all around?

I critically examined the ragamuffin.

Twelve years old, no more. Grimy, thin, covered in soot, dressed in tattered old clothes several sizes too large, with a hunted look in his eyes. But that wasn't what caught my attention.

"You don't smell of blood at all..." I smirked. "Though I suspect it's less a matter of unwillingness and more one of impossibility..."

I abruptly released the boy's hand, sending him down with an "Oof." Already poised to scramble up and bolt like the little rat he was, the boy stared in surprise at the silver coins that had sailed down and clinked at his feet. Gehrman hadn't exactly been watching what or how much he was tossing my way, and I wasn't about to argue. Extravagant, of course—but three spare crowns wouldn't change much in the grand scheme of things.

"When you're a bit older, come find the Sand Bowl, lad. Just mind you don't go getting caught by anyone. If you don't smell of blood, I'll treat you for free."

If he even survives that long, of course. But I didn't voice that. Unfortunately, I am not omnipotent.

Leaving the boy to gape at his little windfall, I vanished into the crowd again, nearly stumbling at the sight of it once more—something on another building. Ignoring that creature was impossibly difficult, but I seemed to be managing.

I hate, hate, hate dark fantasy—curse it all!

Soon I left the district and headed toward Central Yharnam. My path lay through it. The passing carriages became more frequent, the streets wider, and even the people passing by began to look more respectable. It seemed I'd barely walked at all.

Whether it was Byrgenwerth, its offshoot the Healing Church, or the further branches like the School of Mensis and everyone else I might not remember or simply not know—they were all, in one way or another, scholar-fanatics. The finest representatives of their era and of dark fantasy in particular.

This little interest group had set itself a goal: to transcend human limits and give humanity a chance at a new evolutionary leap. Unburdened by the morality of future humans, they trampled over everyone in their path—be they hardened criminals or ordinary children. Inhumane experiments, rituals of a deeply dubious nature—all of it was part of their routine.

Those who knew the full truth of it almost universally saw nothing wrong with what they did. Their motives were sincere, after all, weren't they? Most of the subjects would have died of some disease or other anyway. They just wanted to help. However they could, and with some benefit besides. To find a cure for all diseases, to elevate humanity to an unprecedented level of being.

Add to that the very real, godlike creatures who were not at all shy about interfering in the affairs of men, and the picture becomes truly dismal.

The School of Mensis stood out in my memory, especially its ever-present leader Micolash—who didn't much bother hiding behind morality or any lofty goals beyond personal elevation. Lunatics with cages on their heads, kidnapping people right off the streets for their experiments. I won't deny there were true believers among them, but who does that make it easier for? If I were a stereotypical spirit of light, I'd have had a stroke by now from the horror unfolding here.

I couldn't say exactly what they intended or how they meant to do it, but if memory served, the lot of them had performed some ritual, locking their consciousnesses inside a nightmare. An interesting way to achieve immortality—though perhaps a touch reckless.

"Hm?"

The sound of a violin couldn't help but draw me in. I followed it, soon emerging at a fountain in the city square where, all but drowning out the sound of the water, stood an elderly man playing the violin. Well-groomed, clean, neatly trimmed, and a touch stout, he made a very good impression—bringing a fleeting smile to my face.

The only thing that soured my mood was the smell of blood.

A small crowd had gathered around the violinist, listening with bated breath, and I was no exception. The melody was unfamiliar, yet sounded quite dark, viscous, and mournful—which did nothing to negate its beauty.

A classic of the genre.

"Never changes..." I glanced up at the overcast sky, then lowered my head in thought.

A rat scurried across my foot, for some reason putting me in mind of the sewers.

No. The sewers and everything connected to them were the last thing I wanted to think about.

I'd already been thinking of tossing some change and moving on—but instead, I turned my head thoughtfully, adjusted my top hat, and showed absolutely no sign of surprise.

"Can I help you with something, friend?"

A smile crept onto my face of its own accord. Apparently, I'd attracted attention again—though this time, not on account of my appearance. Something else entirely.

At first glance he seemed quite tall, but that was a false impression created by the strange, grotesque cage on his head. Dressed in something vaguely resembling student's attire, he might have looked perfectly well-groomed if not for that strange cage.

About twenty-five, with unkempt blonde hair and dark, weary brown eyes—the moment our gazes met, he flinched as if he'd seen something, and grabbed at the cage. By the time he'd collected himself, I was already beside him, making him flinch all over again. My gaze filled with sincere concern, my voice with an unprecedented, enveloping warmth.

"Something the matter? A wild night, was it, heh?"

Another reason I'd decided to go for a walk was to... let's say, look for new valuable customers. I hadn't counted on success—but since the opportunity had presented itself, why not?

"I... you... what..."

My new customer (not yet a very dear one), as if trying to wake from a dream, grabbed at the cage again. I stared pensively at it, reflexively tossing the violinist a well-deserved coin.

It seems this will be a touch more difficult than I'd anticipated—but that only makes it more interesting.

The Cathedral Ward could wait for another time. Though, given how the customer had reacted to me, perhaps it was worth holding off on that altogether.

There was, however, another reason—a more substantial one.

I nearly grimaced, continuing with all my might to ignore the elephant in the room. To avoid unnecessary problems in the future, I shouldn't really be leaving the pub at all; better to become a proper homebody.

Otherwise, that giant, arachnid-like thing—so reminiscent of an amygdaloid body, invisible to the vast majority of Yharnamites—will just keep staring. Morpheus shoot it.

Spoiler: concept_art5

 

[Lemor]

Chapter 6

A student of the School of Mensis. A scholar. Say what you will, but it sounded like a title of honour. A seeker of Eldritch Wisdom, of the Terrible Truth. They might all fear it, avoid it, yet the craving for the unknowable—the dreams of transcendence and surpassing one's own limits...

They were simply too potent. Too sweet and alluring.

Of course, Karl, like the vast majority of those who shared his thoughts, understood exactly what they were doing. Even the most blatant psychopath knew that experimenting on humans, and especially on orphanage children, was far beyond any permissible bounds. But the Eldritch Knowledge, the Truth to be gleaned from a Great One, inaccessible and distant... was transcendence not worth it? Was the life of simpletons who had barely learned to read—or hadn't learned at all!—worth more than their Great Purpose, the chance to commune with the Great Ones and receive a sliver of their wisdom?

Karl hadn't thought he would ever dwell on this again. When he had first joined the ranks of the School of Mensis, something within him had resisted, but it felt as though years had passed since then. Or so he thought.

"Achieving something at any price... Don't you think that sounds a bit reckless, Karl?"

The student of the School of Mensis winced once more, trying to clutch his head, but touched only the cage instead. Gods, it irritated more than just him. Grotesque, heavy—simply walking in it all day was sometimes a true ordeal. Normally, Karl paid it no mind, sincerely convinced that the cage protected him from outside interference, but now...

Now his head ached so fiercely!

"There is no other way," Karl answered, grimacing. Why was he even considering what was being said to him?

Cursed cage, how it vexed him so!

"People love to say that, believe my far-from-meagre experience," Arthur narrowed his eyes, as if speaking to a foolish child. "Usually, it's how they justify an unwillingness to find another path or simply... to think for a moment about the possible consequences."

A sharp irony in the young man's voice sparked a flash of anger in Karl. He was a student and a scholar; naturally, he took pride in his intellect! They all did! Seeing the naked difference between himself and the terrified rats inhabiting Yharnam gave him no small amount of pleasure. Karl loved to go for a stroll and simply watch how the unrefined Yharnamites feared him, stepping aside to let him pass, staring like complete idiots at the cage on his head. Stupidity—that was the greatest sin!

Gods, this cursed cage, how it irritates him... And why does he wear it constantly anyway? He takes it off at night regardless!

It was supposed to be an ordinary walk, but instead, he had stumbled upon... something strange.

To all appearances, an ordinary, if well-groomed, simpleton. Dark hair, the most unremarkable brown eyes. A boy from yesterday, distinguished by neither appearance nor anything else. Nothing at all.

So why had Karl's gaze fixed upon him so intensely? The esteemed Master Willem, Provost of Byrgenwerth, believed that transcendence could be achieved through eyes. By seeing the Truth, they could reach for it and thus ascend. The School of Mensis followed a largely similar path, but differently. Karl had seen and participated in much that simpletons would never even dream of. His perception, like that of anyone who had even slightly touched the Awful Truth, could hardly be called normal. And though he couldn't quite put words to what he felt...

Oh Gods, how his head was splitting... This cursed cage on his head!

Something inside told him the man before him was dangerous. Something incomprehensible, strange, shifting... He didn't understand why he'd spoken to him. An utterly misplaced question, asked in a warm, cheerful, carefree voice, had caught him off guard. His indignant reply had only amused the eccentric fellow. It seemed at that very moment his headache had begun. Or had it? Or had it not?

One word led to another, and he hadn't noticed how he'd ended up in an old pub on the very outskirts of town. The simpleton turned out to be its owner, surprising Karl slightly. The student of the School of Mensis flatly refused the offer of a treat, but...

Gods, how his head ached. His throat was incredibly parched. He truly wanted a drink.

Karl nearly cursed, staring indignantly at the still-warmly smiling eccentric behind the bar. Finding the strength to surface from his racing thoughts and answer the question took the student no small effort:

"What are you implying, landlord?"

The pub owner merely raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not implying, I'm telling you straight, my friend. You already look quite unwell. Perhaps you won't refuse a single mug after all? Trust me, you've never tasted anything like it. What fool would refuse free ale?"

Naturally, Karl wanted to object: many would! The owner of a petty pub, accustomed to seeing only poor drunks, couldn't see past his own nose—what a fool! But... Karl broke into a cough, clutching his cage.

"Dry throat?" Arthur laughed without malice. "Then I see all the more reason not to refuse a treat."

The mug appeared before Karl faster than he could say a word. The landlord's pressure was simply too much. Had he not felt so ill, he would have noticed the sheer abnormality of what was happening, but... Gods, when would this pain stop. He wanted to drink.

Karl clenched his teeth, shifting his gaze from the alluring mug to the warmly smiling landlord.

"What consequences are you talking about?"

"Carelessly reaching for a power you cannot even conceive, wagering the future of Yharnam and this entire world... do you truly think a good end awaits you?"

"Did the experience of the Pthumerians and their Queen Yharnam teach you nothing?"

Karl's pupils constricted. For a moment, sanity prevailed. The blurred world gained clarity. With whom, or what, was he even speaking, in heaven's name? What was happening? He needed to run and report everything to Master Micolash!

"Y-you..."

The warm brown eyes took on the colour of a golden-tinged light. Countless particles of sand gathered into a warm, soft, understanding gaze. Tears began to fall from Karl's eyes. The pain in his head became utterly unbearable. He felt a surge of guilt, of shame. Everything began to swim before him, as if he were in some horrific dream.

"There is no other way... N-no... The risk is justified, otherwise... otherwise..."

That, too, was a lie. They could have conducted research through gentler means, sought volunteers, not risked so much with rituals. But they craved results. As fast as possible, as much as possible.

"When was the last time you had a good dream, Karl?" the landlord asked suggestively.

"I don't remember..." the man whispered, like a guilty child.

Arthur clicked his tongue.

"Is an eternity of nightmare your idea of transcendence, dear fellow? Or do you truly believe a different fate awaits you?"

"You seemed like a smart lad to me, Karl."

It was ridiculous. Karl himself was thirty. The pub owner was... what? Perhaps barely past twenty. And yet...

A happy smile crept onto Karl's distorted face. Smart. Yes, he was smart! Finally. Finally, someone understood. Someone noticed his efforts, acknowledged his intellect. And not just anyone, but... but... but...

The image of the young man in the student-scholar's perception began to crumble, merging with the surrounding objects, permeating and replacing them.

The landlord was the bar he stood behind.

The landlord was the mug on the counter and the swill within it.

The landlord was the walls and the ceiling.

The landlord was everything he saw and felt.

The landlord knew all his sins, weaknesses, dreams...

The landlord was kind, he could forgive him, grant him a good dream and redemption...

Karl began to cough, feeling how severely his throat had parched. His head ached so much he could no longer bear it...

Without even realising it, Karl reached for the cage to remove it, but something inside stubbornly discouraged him, screaming that if he did, there would be no turning back.

The landlord noticed his hesitation and raised his eyebrows. Arthur's face settled into the disappointment of a grown man watching a child commit yet another folly. Karl's heart sank.

"You make the choice, Karl," Arthur said indifferently, reaching for the mug. "I will not influence it. The Sand Bowl cannot help those who wish to remain..."

Without even listening to the end, the scholar tore off the cage, cast it aside, and lunged for the mug, wrenching it from the landlord's hands and drinking greedily. Never. Never in his life had he tasted anything so delicious and rich, vibrant and memorable.

The world for Karl filled with bright, light colours; it was as if his head had never ached, and in the depths of his soul, a faint but oh-so-desired hope flared to life. He could no longer fix what he had done. But the pub owner didn't demand the impossible.

"The Truth... might not be so Awful," Karl whispered in relief, leaning against the bar, feeling himself being pulled into the Realm of Sleep.

For the first time in years, he saw a happy dream. A dream in which there were no vile creatures, no screaming people, where everyone acknowledged his talents and intellect. He had reached the Truth and ascended, but in a different way. He had been shown the path. A dream—not an unattainable one, but a perfectly reachable one. A dream along which he would be led, with a warm smile, by the kind, Great Sandman.

The nightmare, finally, promised to end.

***




​

I quickly realised I'd overdone it slightly. I hadn't accounted for the fact that the "tadpole" wouldn't have the iron will or the overfed beast that hunters—who have truly been through the blood, in every sense!—possess; nor did I account for how much stronger I'd become thanks to the blood I'd taken.

Moreover, due to his peculiar perception, Karl was even more susceptible to my power than an ordinary human. Only the cage had managed to create interference, though I still couldn't understand what kind or why. In a way, it was almost comical. The "Insight" presented in the game resembled a curse more than a blessing without proper protection.

The eyes of the awakened Karl shone like two searchlights, filled with an unprecedented vigour and clarity that such an operative shouldn't have had in principle. He carried himself with more poise; the circles under his eyes and his pallor became less pronounced.

However, the primary marker that I'd overdone it wasn't even that, but the fanaticism with which he looked at me—as if at a higher being who had opened a different view of the Truth to him. I didn't just see it, I felt it with every fibre of my sandy soul.

The Lords of Dreams are probably howling with laughter right now at the pathos orchestrated by a minor dream spirit who's grown far too fond of himself. Or perhaps, no longer so minor?

I nearly grimaced. I'm not ashamed at all! Especially since the result was more than satisfactory.

"I see you're feeling much better, my friend," I leaned against the bar.

The student of the School of Mensis only smiled widely at me.

"I wish to see in the waking world the realm you showed me in the dream, the Kind Master of Sand..."

I raised my eyebrows, barely suppressing a huff. The Kind Master of Sand. Hah.

"I have no need for unnecessary formalities. You are rushing things, dear customer. Unfortunately, none of us are omnipotent."

Karl's smile vanished instantly; he lowered his gaze like a guilty child. It was clear the man was seriously contemplating something. And, it seems, he reached a conclusion.

"Y-yes, I understand you, landlord. I have seen the path and I will follow it. The price of redemption..." Karl licked his lips. "I am ready to pay it, so that the dream you showed me becomes reality..."

Naturally, he couldn't fix what he'd already done. But I didn't demand that of him. For every ruined life, he would pay with a hundred saved. I would turn a true monster in human form into a saint.

I wasn't a spirit of light in the conventional sense. The start of my own career had been even more... spectacular. A practical approach—that's the key to success. Committed sins? Compensate a hundredfold. If that's not enough—a thousandfold.

"Still, you're being too dramatic," I patted the flinching customer on the shoulder. "Stop by the pub occasionally; I'll always be glad to see you. Just don't forget to bring something you can use to pay for your drinks. Today was an exceptional day."

Karl frowned, beginning to think over the slight subtext buried in my words. And, it seems, he understood. The eccentric clearly enjoyed solving simple... riddles.

Rising, Karl put the cage back on his head, though without any pleasure or pompous pride. It seemed he had begun to feel a sense of loathing toward it. With a touch of sadness, the man turned his head toward me, bowing it with noticeable difficulty from the weight of the cage, and then, realising that goodbyes were not what I needed, he headed for the exit.

"And one more thing, dear customer," I said with a smile to the halting Karl. "Blood. I value it greatly."

The man flinched. From his face, it was clear he began feverishly thinking about what I might need it for, but apparently coming to no specific conclusions, he simply nodded obediently.

"I understand."

I smiled contentedly, leaning against the bar, watching the quickly retreating figure of my dear customer. Now I had not only my own eyes and ears in that cursed School, but an extra source of blood as well. Is that not wonderful? The walk, tactless beast notwithstanding, turned out to be more than successful.

The smile vanished from my face.

"Lords of Dreams be my witness, fat chance I'll ever have a peaceful stroll again..." I stared pensively at the door.

Currently, I was little different from an ordinary human. The beast watching over Yharnam was in the world of dreams rather than the waking one, meaning it was definitely limited and couldn't easily notice me. Otherwise, if the powerful beasts of the Realm of Dreams could manifest freely in the real world, that world simply wouldn't exist.

I'll need to think about logistics and ensure all matters are handled without my direct involvement. I feel the next few weeks, if not months, will be very busy. Now I didn't just have to pull the Sands' business out of a hole of cosmic proportions, but ensure that a certain cosmic hole—or perhaps more than one?—from the depths of the Realm of Dreams didn't accidentally turn its focused attention my way.

I sighed mournfully. Might as well go and water Thalamus. Plain water won't hurt him either. At night, the next stage can begin.

I gave a mischievous smile, feeling myself beginning to soak in the atmosphere of oppressive dark fantasy.

"People of the future see advertising everywhere, but have they ever seen an advertisement directly in a dream?"

"Here he is, the true Terror of Yharnam—the, ph, Kind Master of Sand!"

Ha-ha-ha-ha!

"You look so happy, Kind Sandman..."

I nearly bit my tongue at the calm voice of Lady Maria. She was clearly smiling.

Did I say I wasn't ashamed at all? Now I'm a little bit ashamed.

***




​

"You are late, Karl."

The low, deep voice of the seemingly fragile, intellectual-looking Master Micolash had always frightened Karl. A slightly narrowed, frowning gaze and a smile that seemed frozen on his face illustrated perfectly how far the Master had gone in his research. An absolute madman, an abnormal among the abnormal, possessing Eldritch Knowledge. He met him right at the entrance to the School, as if perfectly aware of what he had been doing.

"I am sorry," Karl answered shortly. He could no longer afford to be afraid.

Why had he suddenly remembered him? Micolash, no smaller than Karl, loomed over him, tilting his head as if oblivious to the weight of the cage. Students passing by exchanged surprised glances.

"Where have you been? Did you remove the cage?"

"I was walking through Central Yharnam, listening to a violinist," the man answered calmly. "I am sorry."

"You chose an ill-timed moment, Karl," Micolash sighed woefully, shifting his gaze upward as if scrutinising something. "Not much time remains before the ritual. We cannot afford to slack."

"I am sorry, Master," Karl repeated.

"I see, I see," Micolash laughed weakly. "To unwind is also important, I understand... But you haven't answered. Answer me. Did you remove the cage today?"

The Master's voice became more demanding. Previously, he would never have withstood Micolash's mad gaze, but now...

"Yes, I did. My head began to ache. Have I committed a sin, Master Micolash?"

Seeing Karl's utterly crystal-clear, pure gaze, Micolash frowned, sensing a wrongness. Something in his head writhed like worms, warning him of something. Unfortunately, without any pretext, he couldn't turn him into his little... puppet. Students of the School couldn't be punished for no reason. They were civilised people, were they not?

"You may go, Karl."

The student didn't need to be told twice. Soon he vanished behind the school walls, leaving Micolash at the building's entrance. The founder of the School stood motionless for a time, then looked up at the overcast sky, seeing... something in his peripheral vision.

"Ah, Kos, or some say Kosm..." Micolash whispered. "Do you hear our prayers?"

The Great Ones did not die. They merely departed into the depths of the nightmare. Their prayers would be heard.

Though perhaps not by the one they expect.

Spoiler: concept_art6

 

[Lemor]

Chapter 7

The days began to blur one into another. Having a spectator in the form of a slightly unstable lady, despondent unto death—and that's hardly a figure of speech!—both brightened my days and occasionally brought on a headache. The latter became particularly acute after I had to quite literally draw my own blood to dilute it into the ale. Finding a customer is one thing; keeping them is quite another.

There's no need to elaborate on how an ordinary human feels when donating blood on an industrial scale.

On the other hand, it was certainly pleasing to my sandy heart that my less-than-stellar appearance not only stirred sincere concern in the lady but generally nudged her toward actions that pulled her out of her permanent posthumous gloom.

"Come on, sweetheart, I can see you want to ask something," I murmured in a weak voice, slumped in a chair.

Several weeks had passed since the launch of my little advertising campaign, and it had certainly yielded results. The girl sitting across from me bit her lip, clearly struggling with herself.

I understood what caused her doubt.

She had already been burned too badly by her curiosity. She'd plunged her hands into filth she couldn't wash off even in death. Though to her I differed from the Great Ones, I still represented some... supernatural thing. As it happens in dark fantasy, showing curiosity toward supernatural things is an extremely reckless endeavour. She trusted me completely, yet feared learning something she "ought not to know." Otherwise, it's back to the horror, the blood, the guts, the water-bloated heads, and other dubious experiments.

I tried to do something about it, successfully in some areas. Yet I couldn't fully banish her fears.

Lady Maria, consciously or subconsciously, did not want to be my equal. For that would mean there is no kind, powerful being. Only a fanciful dream spirit who had broken through into the waking world, who was once a man. That doesn't sound nearly as romantic or sublime, does it?

"Curiosity is no sin, Lady Maria. Within reasonable limits, of course," I said, my voice still weak.

Blood loss in the waking world affected my sandy essence as well, for my blood was saturated with it. I needed time to recover.

The girl's eyes widened for a moment. She smiled faintly, as if thanking me for those words.

"Why? Why are you doing this, Arthur?"

She had begun calling me Arthur at my own request. I can't say for certain how she perceived this whim, but over the last few weeks I had truly grown used to the name, beginning to associate it with myself in every sense. Not the Sandman inhabiting Arthur Sands' body, but the Sandman—Arthur Sands. Just a different Arthur Sands.

I feigned thoughtfulness, looking up at the lamp. A modern one, having no business whatsoever in the timeframe of this world. Lately, it had become even sharper and more realistic.

I smirked contentedly. I understood what she was asking.

The plan to attract customers via dream advertisements had been set in motion. Essentially, I was doing what I always did—banishing the nightmares of the wretched—though with some new variables. Specifically, the customers were men, preferably between twenty and fifty years old. The latter were fewer in number, but no matter. These men lived close enough to the pub to be able to drop in of an evening. And most importantly, I chose those whom the inner beast had begun to slowly take hold of.

In exchange for the pub most brazenly appearing in the poor souls' dreams—be it a collapsing mine or a damp well into which the unfortunate victim had fallen—I helped them with their nightmares and nudged them toward slaying the curs within themselves, with a little help from me.

Blind kittens can do little against large dogs, but once a kitten gains sight and grows claws, even a big dog might get a paw to the muzzle. Under my supervision, this becomes a pattern rather than an accident. The key is that the dog must not be too large. Fortunately, blood diluted a hundred times had little to do with the blood hunters swallowed in industrial quantities.

In principle, one could say almost nothing had changed, save that "tariffs had risen slightly" and a focus on a specific target audience had emerged. Where once I fed only on directed emotions, I had now added a bit of advertising to my services. Though the difficulty of the work had also grown—thanks to the inner beast. Is that not a fair trade?

"Haven't you seen how the pub has come to life?" I said softly. "Now I needn't worry about my little business failing."

My answer seemed to slightly pique the curious aristocrat. Her entire demeanour suggested I was brazenly deceiving her.

"Money is no problem for you," the revitalised lady squinted suspiciously, sensing a "secret." "It could have been obtained by much simpler means. A merchant suffering from nightmares would gladly help the good Sandman."

"Perhaps I just didn't think of it?" I shrugged lazily. "But I shall now. Thank you, Lady Maria."

Seeing her gaze sharpen with even more dissatisfaction was highly amusing. Were this a game, I'd have thought she was about to enter her second phase. I nearly coughed. Perhaps I'd caught a cold—who would have thought that would reflect in a dream as well.

I am becoming more human, and that couldn't help but please my sandy heart. The question is, for how long.

"Your look is breaking my heart, beauty," I sighed sadly. Seeing a flash of concern in her eyes, I rolled mine. "Just joking. I have my reasons for acting this way."

The curiosity in her eyes threatened to devour me, sandy entrails and all.

I wasn't lying. I truly needed the advertising. I could have saved the Sands' business with one sufficiently impressive sponsor—and I'm more than certain I'd have had something to offer—but there was no need, since I intended to penetrate people's dreams regardless.

Firstly, I needed directed human emotions. The more happy people surrounding me, the better for my gold-tinted sandy essence. In this world, the situation is quite dismal, which does nothing to contribute to a good mood.

Secondly, I needed to clear out the infection in the form of monsters. Adult men were more susceptible to the scourge than women or children—they were who I had to concentrate on first. My actions were no magical cure; blood addiction didn't vanish—I only relieved the symptoms, which might return later with renewed force. With my ale, I wanted to give the Yharnamites, accustomed to sweet blood, an alternative. Not as accessible, not as sweet—there wasn't that much power and blood in me, after all!—but an alternative.

The mere fact that particles of my power would settle in people's bodies and souls promised to greatly ease my future work in eradicating the scourge. The prospect, broadly speaking, promised much — even if the scheme also promised to bleed me dry.

Lady Maria looked around in surprise at the sound of drums. I huffed to myself.

Thirdly, as strange as it may sound, I was building a legend.

"A legend?" Lady Maria asked, puzzled.

"Those like me love it when people talk about us," I answered vaguely. "Let's just say, sweetheart, it's one way for me to manifest a bit more power in the waking world than I currently have."

And at the same time, it offered a chance to seek out the people I'd encountered in the game. There were no shortage of interesting characters among them. Though this was one of the most delicate stages, where too much attention could spell disaster. Given that I was already sitting on a time bomb, a certain degree of risk was unavoidable.

I didn't know when exactly the active phase of the "fun" would begin in the waking world, nor when the Moon Presence would make itself known again—or when the Great One's dead child, once the boundary thinned, would pick up Lady Maria's bloody trail once more.

An extra drop of power wouldn't go amiss, even at considerable risk.

Finally, fourthly.

"It's always interesting to hear someone's story," I smiled warmly. "To see with my own eyes the relief on the face of one who not long ago suffered from nightmares. That's worth a great deal, beauty."

Over the last week, I'd heard no shortage of stories. From a fisherman who nearly drowned —Yharnam was a port city, and those connected to the water and its creatures were plentiful here—to a blacksmith who had become a father (poor little girl!) and even a violinist who'd got into a scuffle in the square. Yes, the very same one I'd crossed paths with earlier.

People's stories not only brightened my days but gave me a better understanding of the world. Sometimes they charged me with a positivity that contrasted sharply with the general... tone of surrounding reality, shall we say. One has to rest the soul somehow, after all.

Lady Maria froze, then before my very eyes... how best to put it?

She seemed to bloom—though she composed herself again rather quickly.

The Sandman is quite the capable psychologist, by the way. Not a single depressive dragon has been left to sulk on his watch.

"Your words make my dead heart beat faster, good Sandman," she said, placing a hand over her heart. "May I ask one more thing?"

I could sense her berating herself for what she wanted to ask. To ask—or rather, to request. Interesting.

I raised my eyebrows, intrigued.

"The Research Hall. It..."

I raised a hand already crumbling to sand, gently stopping her. The Research Hall was known to ordinary folk as something of a hospital—in which, as the name rather implies, the Healing Church conducted experiments. With no small probability, the experiments had begun at the orphanage and only later grown into something larger. The details, alas, I couldn't recall—or perhaps they were never mentioned—but what I did know was more than sufficient.

Wishing to help people after the incident at the fishing hamlet, she had finally broken.

"If I had the means, I'd go and resolve that matter right now. We shall return to it at the first opportunity. I promise."

I permitted myself a smile... let's say, one that wasn't especially friendly. Maria didn't flinch, but I felt her straighten, her back going rigid.

It seemed that matter was settled.

I held a brief pause, feeling the pull of sleep myself—not in the ordinary human sense, but... shall we say, the urge to let my sandy consciousness rest from the effort of thought. For context: I have a bed in my dream. But that's beside the point.

"If I'm not mistaken, a new Night of the Hunt is approaching," I said pensively.

"The hunts have grown more frequent in recent months..." Maria mused.

During a Night of the Hunt, as one might expect, a purge was conducted. People boarded themselves into their hovels, allowing hunters to rid the darkness of the creatures lurking within. At first, such purges had been exceedingly rare—scarcely once every few months—causing the population considerable alarm. But with time, everyone grew accustomed, and no one even thought to ask questions when the purges began occurring more often. Now, a Night of the Hunt might take place twice in a single month.

Honestly, were I an ordinary resident, I'd probably have made urgent arrangements to leave by now. But alas.

"I know," I rose with a groan, making my way toward the bed. "We shall see whether your help is needed, beauty..."

Maria, without a word of question, hurried to her feet and helped me to my rest—as though I were her favourite ailing grandfather. Apparently, in her eyes, I had become a god-like pensioner scattering his sand everywhere.

How sweet—Morpheus take me—especially with the knowledge that this seemingly fragile creature could, in the waking world, grant me an audience with the Lords of Dream with one hand tied behind her back.

Within the next few days I ought to be fully recovered, and ready to meet the "event" in good body and spirit. At any rate, should the need arise, the Sand Bowl is prepared to serve its dear customers even on the most terrible of nights. The question is whether the customers will be ready to pay a little extra for late-night service.

I nearly coughed. It's an honest business, not a charity—whatever the nature of my essence.

I must remember, in the morning, to find the strength to feed Thalamus...

***
​

Changes. Henryk knew that changes had been taking place in Yharnam of late—and in the Healing Church in particular. Large in scale, not immediately apparent at first glance, yet upon closer inspection, deeply troubling.

Along with them, the atmosphere of the city was changing too, growing ever more volatile.

Soon, the Choir of the Healing Church was to elect a new Vicar. It was no secret to anyone who that would be: Lady Amelia, a student of the late first Vicar Laurence, had nothing of her own to stand on, sincerely believed in the Church's ideals, and was therefore a most convenient candidate. The Choir would raise no objections to such a choice.

The Healing Church Workshop, too, faced change—stirring in Henryk's heart an unpleasant ache.

The profession of hunters was ancient in their world, but the first... true hunter of Yharnam was, by every right, Gehrman. He was also the one who had created the revolutionary weapons that made slaying beasts more effective than anything before. In a certain sense, all hunters of Yharnam were, in one way or another, his students—and so it was hard for the elderly hunter to witness what Gehrman had become.

For weeks now, he had not left his workshop, shutting himself away from the rest of the world, and there was no one who would dare disturb him. Gehrman had stood beside those who founded the Church, had been a friend of the first Vicar, and was personally acquainted with the esteemed Master Willem—to say nothing of his strength.

The Church had already made its decision. In all likelihood, the Workshop would soon cease to exist, and hunters would be managed directly by the Church, under Ludwig's command.

This gave Henryk some comfort. Sir Ludwig, wielding his truly holy blade that caught the light of the Moon, inspired many hunters. If there was a worthy successor to Gehrman, it was Ludwig.

Though it seemed, of late, he had been thinking far too much.

"Oh Gods..." Henryk sighed, lowering his gaze to his garments.

Usually touched with yellow, they were now soaked through with the blood of the slain beast.

His daughter would have to work hard to wash them later.

The beast's carcass nearby, lying right across the road, he barely noticed anymore. He knew that come morning, the Church's servants would see to it. The dead creature's fate held no interest for him—he had done his part.

He usually never hunted alone. His daughter's chosen man, and the father of his granddaughters, was always with him. But tonight was different.

Henryk frowned, trying not to dwell on how Gascoigne had begun to change of late. He believed in him as he believed in himself, with no doubt that his will was strong enough to deny the inner beast its freedom.

Perhaps the changes within the Church were taking their toll? Gascoigne had come from far away, but he respected Gehrman as much as—if not more than—Henryk himself. After all, Henryk had already been old when Gascoigne...

No. He mustn't think about that now. A beast might be lurking in the dark, waiting for its prey. He couldn't afford to let his guard down.

"I wonder what Viola will make for breakfast..." the old man muttered, feeling a surge of strength through his body.

She must have been terribly worried, knowing he'd gone out alone this time.

He had something worth protecting. As long as his loved ones were alive, the beast would never gain the upper hand—no matter how many dreadful nightmares he witnessed, sleeping or waking.

Fortunately, despite the old hunter's battle-readiness, he encountered no further beasts.

Only on a Night of the Hunt did the streets truly fall into silence. The lights in houses went dark; for most of the night, a dead quiet held sway, broken only occasionally by the rare crack of a shot or the growl of a beast.

This time, however, save for the one creature, Henryk heard neither.

Perhaps he had simply wandered into such a godforsaken pit that even monsters dared not venture there. Or perhaps they feared something?

"Something is wrong..." Henryk whispered.

Truly, hunters possessed an inexplicable instinct. It was not merely about scent—it was something no hunter could properly explain. The approach of danger, an oppressive unease that foretold ill.

The stronger the hunter, the more they could sense and comprehend, consciously or otherwise. And Henryk, who had somehow preserved a clear—insofar as "clear" could mean anything in such a world—mind into old age, saturated from head to toe with the Old Blood, could say with certainty that something was unsettling him.

Perhaps it was that the scent of blood hanging in the air—long since etched into his very bones—had grown faintly weaker. Or perhaps it was a dim source of light?

Yes. That must have been it.

Henryk gripped his weapon and moved toward the light.

It was difficult to convey the old man's astonishment when he saw a pub with unboarded doors, its faint interior visible through the windows.

Easy to miss even if one were looking for it—and yet right now, the pub stood out as it never had before.

"What a foolish violation of the rules..." Henryk whispered grimly.

Faint lighting was permissible. But what he saw before him went beyond any acceptable bounds.

The old hunter was about to enter when he paused for a moment, staring in surprise at a solitary white flower growing right beside the entrance.

Something about it caught his attention. Perhaps how lush and beautiful it was.

Or perhaps its vivid scent?

It reminded him of blood, somehow—and yet it clearly wasn't. Or was it?..

Henryk shook his head, dismissing so trivial a thing. He was growing quite absent-minded, it seemed. For a hunter, that was as good as a death sentence.

Not in the least surprised to find the door unlocked, the man stepped inside with ease, wincing at the chime of the bell shattering the silence of the Night.

"Welcome to the Sand Bowl pub. What can I get you?"

Irritation. Henryk felt it for only a moment, seeing the lad smiling as though nothing in the world were amiss. Clean, well-groomed, seemingly fragile—his calm, faintly ironic gaze and the smile on his face stirred something in the hunter's soul that wasn't entirely pleasant.

And it wasn't only irritation.

A faint unease, a wariness, a certain sense of...

Wrongness.

But Henryk had no chance to pursue the thought, for the pub held not only its owner, but someone else entirely.

Master Gehrman?

It was difficult to convey the depth of the old man's astonishment. Gehrman was perhaps the last person Henryk had expected to find in a pub.

No. In some sense, it was almost logical. It was a Night of the Hunt—Gehrman was a hunter like any other, perfectly capable of going out on a sortie. And yet the fact that he too had passed this strange pub, had decided to step inside, and...

The First Hunter drained his mug in one draught, rose, drew a vial of blood from his coat, and handed it to the satisfied Arthur.

What is happening?

Henryk frowned.

"I shall return later," Gehrman said in a hollow voice.

"The Sand Bowl is always glad to see its dear customers, Gehrman," the young man smiled.

Unlike Gehrman—indifferent to his own life—Henryk's instincts were far sharper. The hunter in his blood-soaked garments tightened his grip on his gun, barely restraining himself from attacking what was, apparently, the pub's owner.

Gehrman passed by Henryk and paused for a moment, then murmured quietly:

"If you value your life, do not dare provoke him. And ask no unnecessary questions."

Henryk felt as though cold water had been poured over him. He watched Gehrman disappear into the darkness of the Night of the Hunt, not fully grasping what had just occurred.

Feeling how parched his throat had grown, he turned his gaze back to the pub owner.

Arthur's smile grew wider still. A flicker of recognition crossed his eyes; his gaze grew warmer, his smile brighter.

"By the look of your clothes, you've had a successful night, hunter. Don't be shy—come in. I'll pour you my best ale."

Henryk sat down uncertainly at the bar, setting aside his main weapon—though his hand simply refused to relinquish the gun.

"I doubt you can surprise me," Henryk said coldly.

Even ale diluted with blood brought him no joy anymore. If his daughter's cooking had lost its taste, what hope was there for swill?

He had no intention of ignoring the First Hunter's advice—and besides, he had never been particularly talkative. He wasn't a recluse, not in the least. It was simply that it was hard for the old man to open up to anyone outside his family.

"Oh, we shall see!" Arthur laughed.

The landlord's ease and composure were, in themselves, wrong. A blood-soaked hunter arriving in the night was the last creature anyone would wish to see—excepting the beasts, perhaps. And yet, for some reason, it was not the hunter who sent a chill down one's spine, but the innocently-looking owner of the pub.

A mug filled with ale appeared before him as if by magic. Something about it struck Henryk as strange, though he couldn't put his finger on what.

"Does a hunter not drink?" Arthur smirked. "I'll never believe it. The last thing a hunter worries about is the state of his liver."

He talks too much.

Henryk frowned, and took a cautious sip.

He may have intended to think of something else, but any other thoughts fled the moment the ale touched his tongue. The old hunter nearly dropped the mug, gripping it so hard it threatened to crack.

"You'll have to pay extra for damaged property, friend," the pub owner chuckled without malice.

The taste was there. Not overly strong, faintly sweet, with a pleasant bite of bitterness. Rich and vivid, stirring warm, bright emotions in the old hunter.

"Bring Gascoigne with you next time—I think he'd like it too," Arthur said quietly.

The words didn't register immediately, but Henryk's instincts were faster than his mind.

The bore was already levelled at the landlord's head—and Gods knew he wanted to fire, but...

The landlord seized his arm with a force that threatened to tear it clean off. Crying out in pain, Henryk stared in horror at the transformed pub owner, as though another being entirely had taken hold of him.

The warm brown eyes had gone cold; all trace of expression had vanished, replaced by the madness of a dead man who had not met a good end.

"Do you also suffer from an unbearable curiosity?"

Arthur's voice had shifted—risen, just slightly.

"I... I was mistaken..." Henryk rasped. "Forgive me, landlord..."

Fear bloomed alongside the long-suppressed emotions in the hunter's soul. He could not die. He could not leave his family. Not now, not when something was already happening to Gascoigne.

The pub owner held him for a long moment in a gaze that expressed nothing—and then...

The grip loosened, allowing the old hunter to pull his arm free. The hollow, expressionless stare filled once more with an inhuman warmth, and a smile crept back onto his face.

"The arm seems to be broken," Arthur remarked casually, huffing with a note of amusement as he shook the limp limb. "It's not so easy controlling someone else's body, is it?"

Henryk swallowed.

Beasts were simple. Straightforward. But this unknown—what he had just encountered—frightened him far more than any beast.

What in damnation is this creature talking about...

Arthur regarded the swollen limb for a moment, then turned an accusing eye on the hunter:

"The night has only just begun, and you're already so quick to violence, old man. Can't hold your ale? Who would have thought. Sit. The night promises to be long yet. I'm quite certain you have things to share, Henryk."

The old hunter flinched.

Oh Gods. He had known that changes were afoot—but it seemed there were things he had not yet known. Things almost no one knew.

It appeared that a force hitherto unseen had emerged in Yharnam. One capable of turning the whole game on its head.

And it seemed he was about to be made a part of it—offered a deal he simply could not refuse.

Spoiler: concept_art7

 

[Lemor]

Chapter 8

The Night of the Hunt had come to an end, marking the onset of the grey, mundane weekdays, slightly relieved by a small but nonetheless noteworthy event: it had been raining for some time. Heavy rain. In the last few days it had been pouring down, which, in Arthur's memory, did not happen very often. Naturally, the streets were unprepared for this, resulting in a local flood and the subsequent task of dealing with its consequences: the pub had been slightly inundated.

Such a "seasonal event" amused me, if anything. Generally, I liked new things, even if they promised minor problems.

Minor—a distinction of the utmost importance! This wind lashing against my face, causing pleasant goosebumps, the drizzle, the surprisingly clean sea air, and the overall change in the city's atmosphere: it grew quieter, the streets filling with... let's say, melancholy. But, strangely enough, not an oppressive one—curse dark fantasy for what it is. Rather, it was airy, peaceful.

Here and there, frowning adults flickered past, naively attempting to shelter from the weather under umbrellas; several times I saw children frolicking in the street, jumping through puddles, blissfully unaware of what this might lead to.

My floral friend had grown even lusher lately and seemed to greet the rain as a challenge. There was a fleeting thought of moving him into the pub, but intuition suggested Thalamus was no less pleased with the event than I was. Perhaps I'm simply justifying my own laziness, seeing that the flower is doing quite well. After all, I don't worry about him during a Night of the Hunt—and here it's just a bit of rain, ha!

Lately, the influx of customers—which had grown manifold thanks to dubious advertising and supplements of diluted blood—had slightly subsided, which only pleased me. The appearance of dear and not-so-dear customers had been a blessing, yet it quickly showed me that being a pub owner is not just being a mysteriously smiling "Master of Sand" (I still occasionally chuckle at the invention of a certain not-so-dear customer) and having night-time conversations with hunters who haven't the faintest clue what's going on—but also a whole heap of small and not-so-small problems.

For instance, I had to start keeping a rather primitive but necessary accounting; furthermore, my ale was beginning to run low. While there was still enough for now, it didn't excuse me from the duty of starting a new batch. The main problem wasn't even heading out to find ingredients—fortunately, I had the help of an obliging student of the School of Mensis, capable of procuring everything in the shortest possible time without questions—but the brewing process itself.

The sole owner of a small pub is simultaneously a brewer (a true master, as Arthur not unreasonably believed!), a technologist, and a manager.

The process of conjuring an alcoholic miracle could easily take all of twelve hours, followed by weeks of anxious observation—and that's excluding the bookkeeping and purchasing. First, the volume of the future swill had to be planned, the stock of malt, hops, yeast, and firewood checked. Good thing I'd seen to that before the little flood began. Then came the preparation: crushing the malt, treating the cauldron, heating the water. Up to two hours could be spent on this alone.

I was alone, after all. Lady Maria was the last creature who could help me.

Next came the mashing of the malt into the cauldron, the cautious pouring of water with the constant need to monitor the temperature—not just at the start, but for an hour and a half. Following that were the stages of filtering, boiling, and cooling; sometimes the wily Sands added yeast "sludge" saved from a previous successful brew. To be honest, such a "secret ingredient" didn't particularly appeal to me.

I had my own, more effective and useful one.

And even what I've listed was not the main problem. The fermentation process also had to be closely monitored for the following weeks. In general, almost the entire work of a master of alcoholic miracles boiled down to constant production control—otherwise something could go wrong and a heap of time, effort, and money would simply go to waste! Hypnos be my witness, when my first real alcoholic masterpiece was ready, I nearly broke into a dance. The realisation that I'd have to drain blood from myself again was hardly oppressive. Just the tiniest bit.

My joy, however, was short-lived. An ephemeral thought had taken a quite concrete form: I needed help. The problem wasn't critical, but I couldn't ignore it for long. I'd known from the start that help would be needed, but here again, someone else's experience and my own played a role.

I naively thought I'd manage everything easily, ha-ha. To be fair, it turned out that way with the accounting: had the original owner of this body seen the bureaucracy of the future, he'd have turned grey on the spot, and I could clearly organise the work process more... shall we say, professionally. Nothing special—just a slightly sharper memory, thoughts flowing a bit faster, and a touch more experience... slightly more. Slightly.

But as for the brewing, everything turned out to be considerably more complicated...

"I have an idea..." I whispered.

"Landlord?"

"Heavy working days," I said lazily, leaning against the bar.

The rain outside was lulling me, adding to my laziness—though nothing could put me to sleep without my will. Harry only nodded grimly at my answer, took a sip of ale, and frowned even more deeply. The oaf had become my regular customer. One of the dearest, by the way—the very first one.

"Is something bothering you?" I shifted my gaze from the window to the butcher's assistant.

"Landlord, your swill... It's not as tasty as it was the first time..."

The oaf began to look like an obedient child who desperately didn't want to tell his mother something was wrong with the soup, but had to. How charming.

"Does the blood still beckon you, my friend?"

The oaf slumped entirely, offering no answer. I didn't judge him, of course. I knew it would be this way. Had he stopped drinking it altogether, he wouldn't have felt the difference between the "special" swill and what I'd started making for ordinary customers. To be clear: Harry is, of course, a dear customer. I'm not joking. Just... simple. Even the flower could bring more benefit in the future than Harry—at the moment, at least. Cynical, perhaps, but I am the owner of an honest business, not a charitable foundation.

"I... I'm trying... But the blood, it's everywhere..."

"Everything has its price, Harry," I said with deliberate quietness. "If you want something special, you must either pay the corresponding price or do something of comparable value. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Watching the poor wretch puff up from the mental effort was amusing, to say the least. I was by no means mocking him—except in a quite harmless form, I confess—just making him use what the sweet, alluring blood dulls almost entirely. Brain! Think, Harry, think! About anything at all!

Truly, I didn't need him to catch any subtext. It was enough for him to arrive at something, and from there we'd figure it out and guide him as the situation required.

"I understand, landlord..."

The tone in which my dear customer grumbled his answer nearly made me rub my eyes. Lords of Dreams be with him—no one is perfect, everyone has their own problems.

"Well, glad to hear it," I huffed. "Have you been troubled by nightmares lately, Harry?"

The oaf perked up immediately.

"I slaughter them with an axe, landlord!"

Oh?

"If only you knew what important words you've just spoken..." I looked up at the ceiling.

Harry either didn't hear me or was too occupied with another attempt to enjoy my ale, clearly finding no great pleasure in it. For that matter, he wouldn't find pleasure in anything else, save for the blood.

People could suppress the beast within themselves for years, if not until death, without any outside help. In the game, there was a madman who had, at least partially, retained his reason—learning to turn into a beast and back again. Now, with my small help, one had appeared who consciously learned to slaughter the clusters of foreign will within himself.

Tonight I must check whether this is a widespread practice or whether the butcher's assistant had turned out to be a bit more special than he might appear at first glance. Having finished his ale with some effort—appearing satisfied, though not overly so—Harry donned a cloak slightly ill-suited for his bulk and headed for the exit.

I don't know if it was a coincidence or if the universe had decided to ramp up the dark fantasy atmosphere even further, but as Harry stopped at the door and turned back, thunder rolled.

"Strange rumours are going around lately, landlord," Harry said gloomily. "The customers at my shop say they hear strange squeals at night. One of them said he saw a creature running in the dark—something... er, like a blue mushroom..."

"How unusual," I tilted my head, frowning slightly. "Well, I'll keep it in mind. Thank you for the information, my friend. It may prove useful."

The oaf actually drew himself up at my praise—as though I truly were his strict mother preparing the tasteless soup—and proudly headed for the exit, quickly vanishing into the rain. The pub descended into a brief, gloomy silence.

"You could have got yourself an umbrella," I remarked to no one in particular. Fortunately, they were already common among men. "What do you think, Lady Maria? Any thoughts on what it could be?"

At night I'm almost always wandering through dreams, so I've no idea what's happening in the outer world. Strangely enough, the waking world can offer much of interest at night. It's been a while since I mentioned that I hate dark fantasy.

"Sounds like an escaped experiment from the Healing Church," the girl said quietly.

From her tone it wasn't hard to tell she didn't much care for the news.

I closed my eyes, running through everything I remembered from the game.

"If I'm not mistaken, you call it a Small Celestial Emissary?"

Lady Maria didn't answer immediately, pausing in thought.

"...yes..."

There we go. The lady had fallen into despondency again. I'd have to manifest some delicious food for her. I held a brief silence. "I'll see what can be done."

"..."

The lady didn't answer, but I felt her gratitude. Hopeless dark fantasy or not, the working day continued—right until evening fell, when I was thinking of closing the pub and going to prepare dinner. The night promised to be entertaining.

As one might guess, the entertainment began a little before nightfall. With the chime of the bell, the pub door swung open, marking the start of a small adventure with large consequences. Thunder rolled.

"Welcome to the Sand Bowl. What can I get you?"

Karl, who had come in for a mug of ale, closed his rain-soaked umbrella and decided not to start with a greeting: "Something has happened, Kind Master."

I raised my eyebrows.

"A Small Celestial Emissary escaped?"

Karl stared at me for a second as though I were some omnipotent clairvoyant. He was about to say something, but the mere fact that a not-so-dear—if useful—customer had decided to drop in was enough to draw certain conclusions, so I continued: "Allow me to clarify. Are you in some way involved in the escape of the Small Celestial Emissary, Karl?"

It seemed the customer nearly tripped on the spot.

Oh, don't pretend it isn't obvious, Lords of Dreams take you!

We shall resolve this. After all, we are responsible for those who have drunk our blood.

***


​

Having taken the side of a strange, incomprehensible, but seemingly all the more powerful being settled in an inconspicuous pub, Karl was mentally prepared to be made to conduct foul rituals, perhaps arrange sacrifices, carve mysterious symbols into his chest, and... Essentially, Karl's imagination mostly ended there.

The truth turned out to be quite different from what the student of the School of Mensis had expected. On one hand, everything was considerably more mundane; on the other... Incomprehensible.

Karl's dreams had become deep, vivid, and rich. Every night the man woke more rested than he could ever remember. Nightmares he had forgotten entirely. The price was laughable: conversations. The Kind Sandman, the Master of Sand, talked with him. Unlike the rest of the dream, Karl couldn't recall what they spoke about. He knew he saw a smiling, crumbling sandy figure before him, reported on something, reflected on something, provided details... of something—but each morning, no matter how he tried, he couldn't remember a single word of what had passed between them.

The first real assignment in the waking world had surprised the scholar as well. He wasn't asked to procure something or someone from the School—instead he was sent to buy ingredients for brewing swill. One morning Karl simply woke and understood that he had to help the landlord with his small business. It would have been comical if it weren't so absurd.

Of course, Karl had theories.

Perhaps the landlord was confined within the pub?

Or was he testing him?

Or simply toying with him?

Or perhaps he simply didn't understand, or... Didn't see?

Karl tried not to dwell on it too much. He, of all people, knew how destructive premature knowledge could be. He already believed the Kind Master would fulfil his dream, and every night he grew more convinced of it.

Though the bright dreams had unexpectedly produced an unusual... side effect. Empathy. Having almost entirely discarded human morality, he was beginning to recover it. The world grew brighter—and with it, more horrific. Visiting the Research Hall and the orphanage had become unexpectedly difficult for Karl. Patients clutching their water-bloated heads, calling in gurgling voices for the departed Lady Maria. Children who didn't understand what they were being treated for. Cries and screams echoing from wards no different from cages.

Karl couldn't say the situation had become unbearable—but that it had begun to stir unpleasant emotions in him was undeniable. As it became undeniable, a little later, that one of the cages stood open. It was already deep into the night; heavy rains had covered Yharnam, and the clinic was nearly empty.

"Oh Gods..." Karl whispered, looking around.

By circumstance, it had fallen to him to check that all subjects were in place. A purely formal procedure that had never led to any serious trouble. Until now.

A cold, empty clinic filled with occasional squeals and shouts. An empty corridor along which a child turned Emissary must have passed not long before. He should have alerted the others, begun a search. Before his encounter with the Kind Master of Sand, he would have done exactly that. But...

Karl closed the door and silently continued down the corridor, as though nothing had happened. It wasn't his problem that one subject had escaped. Let it run. Perhaps if it had retained some shred of reason, it would understand to flee toward the forest and find shelter there. Though most likely it would be caught soon regardless. The important thing was that there were no witnesses to what he...

"Is everything alright, sir?"

A tall, calm female voice caused Karl to freeze for a moment, after which he slowly turned. As if she had been following at his back all this time, she had appeared with the unsettling silence of a predator. Pale skin, light hair gathered in a ponytail, a long white garment resembling a robe... A doctor?

"Quite," Karl answered coldly. "Can I help you with something, miss..."

"Just Iosefka," the girl smiled. "No, not at all. I was simply passing by and thought you might need help..."

"Have we met somewhere before?"

"Perhaps—after all, we are all servants of the Healing Church," the girl laughed softly. "Though not with me—with my sister. We are often confused for one another. By giving us the same name, our parents had no idea how much confusion they would cause..."

A smile crept onto the stranger's face, causing Karl to feel a strange foreboding. As if worms were writhing in his head, warning him of something.

She was not to be trusted.

"Perhaps," Karl answered no less coldly. "Good night."

He didn't wait for the stranger's reply, turning and disappearing swiftly into the walls of the Research Hall—never seeing the look with which the doctor watched him go. Only a few days later did Karl learn that rumours of a blue, mushroom-like creature had begun to circulate through Yharnam. The foolish spawn hadn't escaped after all—potentially dragging him into serious trouble—and the scholar of the School of Mensis was left with no choice but to turn to his mysterious patron before investigations could begin in earnest.

Now, with the School of Mensis ritual drawing ever closer, the last thing he needed was unnecessary attention.

Spoiler: concept_art8