Old Nightmares

[just_a_doll]

PSL for hunter_marked_soul


[ Being the product of a lonely old Hunter's obsession and eventual mania paired her with the memories of her likeness. Memories of someone who looks like her; sounds like her, but who's personality is far removed from her own. Even when she felt the proverbial shackles release, the dreams remained; and when she followed the Good Hunter into the waking world, she felt closer to them than ever.

Everything became more vivid, when before, there were only brief flashes and muffled voiced. The blood had stronger scent, a stronger taste; it was intoxicating and empowering. The blade in her hand felt heavy, real and the screams felt close. Too close. She could feel the splash of blood against her cheek, the slimy chunks of skin and viscera that stained her coat sleeves up to her elbows after prying open something hard. Bone, perhaps? Yes, it must have been. And she had been searching for something...

Something to help her see… No, no. To elevate her mind. Eyes to provide insight. But she had yet to find any in all of the slaughter.

The scent of salt and brine is suffocating; the ocean must be close… She sees the face of a pale creature; she can smell her blood and feel her skin. It’s unnatural, scaled and slimy. She holds something in her hands that is so coated in blood that she can’t discern what it is. Somewhere far away, in the background, the distinct sound of weeping can be heard and over it all, a voice calls out in desperation:

Curse the fiends, their children, too... And their children's children, forever, true.

The remorse weights heavily on her chest, the salt and brine makes her nauseous and as the bloodlust fades, and she looks out at the massacre before her, a tear slips down her cheek.

Suddenly, the Doll’s eyes shoot open and a breath catches so abruptly in her throat, it makes her cough. She sits up when she finds that lying flat only makes her feel severely winded, lifting a hand to grasp the fabric of her nightgown at her chest until she can finally breathe again. Once she can breathe again, she lifts her other hand to her face, finding it to be streaked with tears.

The nightmares are getting so much worse and giving her far too much insight into a life she'd never lived, but… what can she do when she is connected to someone and their memories even in death? Therein lies the question of how to move on; how to separate herself from this guilt-ridden Hunter. It's far too late to think too deeply on it, for even as she is a doll, she feels the effects of exhaustion and benefits from a good night's rest.

Unfortunately, she already knows that sleep will not come so easily, now. Sighing softly, she wipes the tears from her face with the end of her sleeve and reluctantly slips out of bed. To the kitchen, then. A cup of tea would help. Food and drink weren’t required for her survival, but… the smell and the warmth had a way of calming her.

She doesn't think about whether or not Nathaniel is awake, but even if she did consider it, well... modesty is something she is still learning. She is only garbed in her night gown; her nightgown that has a wide neck and tends to maintain a constant state of being off one shoulder, revealing the old ball joint and small scattered cracks in her porcelain arm. At least the sleeves are long and wide, and the general length of the garb falls just above her ankles. ]

Comments

I hope this works!

[hunter_marked_soul]

[Where they had emerged, in the Waking World, the Hunter--Nathanial--had no idea. Nor was he entirely sure what had called him, or the doll. His mind had been rapidly readjusting and trying to recall being in this...form. This shape. Human. Or at least human-shaped and imprisoned? A shell.

Memories were missing and spotty; he was having trouble recalling details of his life before. Before being a Hunter. Before the Dream. His name had taken the longest so far to recall, when he had been "Good Hunter" from his only companion for who knew how long? Or called far worse, among those in the other area of the Waking World. But he thought he remembered enough. To at least blend, somewhat, among the others.

Except that he and the Doll stood out in this new part of the Waking World they found themselves in. Their clothes, their hair color, it was a curiosity. Polite curiosity for the most part, but a curiosity nonetheless. This area was different in scents, sounds, people--they were for the most part dark-haired and dark eyed. Shorter too, with flowing garments wrapped around them at times as opposed to what had been in Yharnam.

In all, he was vaguely reminded of another Hunter--one gone mad in his ramblings, who had worn similar garb. Had been from the Far East... Were they now, in the Far East as well?

The houses did not match the style he had seen in Yharnam too, all structures of wood and thick paper with occasional metal use and work. Few structures taller than two stories to a building, and the town seemed flat and all of a level compared to Yharnam as well. Would it too prove to be built upon another city's ruins?

While the prevalent styles had seemed to be foreign to them both, there was also a mix of that which was more familiar to them. A blending, as this town seemed to have been invaded. No, not invaded--not quite. Opened--and forced to start becoming less isolated.

It was odd, but he was here to do a job. The Doll was here because she had wanted to be. To see the Waking World. Whatever Gerhman had considered her or made her to be, to him--she was friend. Companion. Care-taker and helper and much more than just a Doll. Even having met whom the First Hunter had modeled her on, Nathanial--the Good Hunter--could not see the Doll only as an echo. Their natures were different and roles as well. The similarities he found were superficial at best, and so the Doll was her own, to his way of thinking.

The houses here were strange, and it was difficult to move quietly through the wood and paper frame and floors. There were odd customs. The kitchen found on a slightly lower floor, with an iron stove and kettle hung above that. A crude sink and counters, a door off to a small fenced in yard. The beds were large mats on the floor, and the space was cramped in a different way than the pair were used to.

It did not make for easy sleeping, even if he did not have the nightmares of another living in his mind. Or at least, not in the same way as she did. But he did sleep, the human shell and form needing it, needing rest and care and nourishment of food and drink. Blood was not as plentiful here, nor blood ministry--if it was, it was whispered in dark alleys and secrecy. Taboo according to the belief system, though monsters they believed in readily.

The sound of the doll's movement had golden-brown-eyes cracking open. Still, on the fluffy-sleep mat in the other room, as the good Hunter slept lightly. Weapons nearby, though he slept with the smaller weapons belt on just in case. Armor, light though it was, nearby as well but he wasn't unclothed either. Without the heavy coat and mantle, the gauntlets and boots, the hat and concealing scarf. Comfortable, but ready and wary. That moment to assess and confirm their location and surroundings.

A second to re-orient and center himself. The waking world. Not the Dream.

Then he was up on his feet, moving to find the source of the noise. Yes, it was probably the doll--but why she would be up and about he did not know. She was still a mystery to him in so many ways. Quiet steps though, as much as he could over the wooden floors and through paper and wood framed doors. Soft, light, ready to move as needed. The hand-lantern at his belt, lit to provide some light as shadows played down the halls and along paper screens.]