Archive for April, 2015

A treatise on the bloody hunt

April 27, 2015



Shields are for dullards and old men. The Kirkhammer does good work for a man of strength, the Saw for the rest of us who are, perhaps, more precise in our swing. What old tortoise would hide behind iron shield while the blood of his wife and babe were supped upon by the beasts of the hunt? Only my father; soulful but bloodless, and rightfully dead.


It is wise for a man and woman to stay inside to burn incense on nights when the moon shines red, if they can stand such close company with one another while all manner of creature screech and bray and fornicate lustfully outside; indeed, they may make a ball of this and don masks, and, pretending to be beasts themselves, engage in all manner of licentious acts. But you and I do not stay inside on nights of the hunt, in fact we cannot, because we are both hunter and hunted, and such idleness does not suit us. Our place is out in the streets, in the forests and hills, where the true act of consummation occurs.


Yharnam is beautiful, Old Yharnam doubly so. The sun sets orange against the black spires; mosses and grasses grow out of stone bridges, verdant forests which rise from the city’s cracks. Yharnam winds in on itself; it reluctantly gives up its secrets, which are these: Bodies become bonfires, blood is the most intoxicating spirit, and the hounds eat as well as anyone.


The Forbidden Woods are tritely named, but what surprises I have found there! Men, pointing and jeering so that one wanders close in anger, men who’s heads, now the distance is closed, split lengthwise into a knot of vipers, undulating with parasitic glee. And the fungal myconid-men with their phallic sporecaps; I did eat their blue glowing flesh—it was not for me (being too tough and earthy), but I saw many more stars that night than exist in any sky, self-arranging into eldritch constellations of the faces I have seen in dreams.


Hunt boy, hunt! You should need no convincing, should it stir your soul.

Young girl, take up your knives and walk the streets at night; show me your bravura. I have met women who shame all the men of Yharnam with their finesse. Since birth you have been lectured on virtue and grace, and I see it in your well-mannered swing of Saw and Blade—beautiful efficiency, not a movement wasted.


Advice for aspiring hunters:

Only hunt if you feel the hunt braying inside you; wander out of your incensed home only as a caged beast, longing to be free. Otherwise, there is no shame in staying indoors on the night of the hunt; it is the only sensible thing to do.

Pick whichever tool gets you going, but do not underestimate the humble Saws. They have tricks for close and middle range, sweeping scythe-like over groups of enemies. Cleave generously but thoughtfully; they are classics for a reason.

Rely heavily on your blunderbuss, and learn to parry every twitch with a blast of silver that leaves your enemy dead or kneeling.

When you see something unknown, approach slowly and prepare to back away quickly.

Treat another hunter with more caution than you would any beast.

And, most importantly:

Run for those lanterns, boy.


I am not and have never been moved by matters of the Soul; save that idleness for grand Boletaria. Those who seek themselves in spiritual affairs strive toward mastery but never truly reach it. I prefer the present tense,  the Saw and skin,  the smell and sight of blood against the Yharnam moon—

The hunt itself, not the idle bragging of it.