User blog:Alva the Cliff Jumper/The Crimson Hour Prologue: Hung Beneath the Blood Red Moon

Hello, y'all. So, as many of you know, I have been writing an original universe for some time now. I posted chapters awhie ago as well, but they were a little too bulky for the discussion board format, so I didn't post anything new for awhile until I found blogs, where I could have a much easier time in posting them.

For preface: Yes, this universe is based off of the amazing city of Yharnam in Bloodborne, but do realize that the changes--while maybe not being immediately substatinal in the prologue--expand throughout the story. The best way to summarize the setting prematurely is late 1890s style setting, with sudden advances into weaponry and technology of WWI while having some of the mentality of the mediveal area sticking around.

For readers, new and old, I hope you enjoy. Feel free to say any criticism, but do not think I will take it immedietly, or at all. Right now, I am merely sharing this work for you guys to enjoy first and foremost, and I will be finding a professional editor in due time. With that said, once again, enjoy the story, and leave me comments if you want to see the rest of what I have. Thank you, and keep on being awesome.

Prologue: Hung Beneath the Blood Red Moon
'''Belton was doomed to burn under the pale, frigid light of the blood-red orb that hung in the sky, resembling the haunting image of a bloodshot eye. The Huntsman's Moon, some called it: a common sign of judgment associated with the infamous Iscariot Church, bringers of inquiry and accusation. It bathed the cobblestone streets in crimson light and reflected its sinister rays through the dust-ridden alleys and humid thoroughfares, watching the city with an intrusive gaze.'''

'''Beneath its incandescent glow, living nightmares stalked through the streets, dragging cruel tools across the ground. Demons, the Church called them: savage monsters of twisted flesh that once held a semblance of humanity. Now, that forgotten memory had shifted into the visage of a wolf. Blood red eyes, elongated limbs, savage teeth, matted hair, and raking claws were all key features of these blood-driven devils. These were not men graced by their God. They had tasted forbidden knowledge and now paid for it with eternal bloodlust. '''

'''The onlooker watched them with narrowed eyes, monitoring their meanderings through the thoroughfares and street corners, the demons snarling and screaming for blood. There was nothing of the city left to save when only demons remained, traveling through the once humble gothic city-state, now covered in ash and awash in rivers of dried blood. Iscariot’s chosen had failed, and Yarlen had no one else to blame but himself.'''

'''Standing at a staggering 6’7”, the lanky Ash Mouth watched his regret through the stained glass window of the clock tower, which ticked down their inevitable fate with the ominous cacophony of creaking gears and jets of steam as its orchestral backdrop. His numbed hands tightened around his ash-covered warhammer as he watched, regret collecting itself beneath his hideous mask of knitted burlap and stitched up cloth, now soaked with sweat and tears.'''

'''Below Yarlen was a city, Belton as it was called. A metropolis built from the ground up by hard-working people, constructed of stone and iron, and holding history Yarlen could never appreciate as much as its dying people. A city that would soon crumble to the likes of fire, bloodshed, and beasts. It was poetic, in a way. Everything fell, sooner or later. But now, with no hope left before him, Yarlen knew that he—like this city—had to take the inevitable plunge into the gallows below. '''

'''Moving away from his brutish vigil, Yarlen trailed his bony fingers across the glassy plane at his side, feeling them slide across the placid surface like feet on black ice. He had no relation to Belton, nor its suffering populous. Instead, he was born in Merrow, far removed from the gloomy city of smokestacks and forges. Distant from the grim skies and dark recesses of the nailed up coffin Belton had become, defiant to the very end. A place where he wasn't haunted by his own dreams, where his mind was not plagued by the very same demons he was supposed to hunt. '''

'''“Damnable things,” Yarlen muttered absentmindedly, forgetting that no one was left. The rest of his ‘friends’ and ‘co-workers’ were out and about in the city streets, just as forsaken as the demons below but savoring the blood they spilled with the zeal only a Hunter could possess. They had gone mad, and soon, Yarlen would join them. He could hear it now. The voices that tantalized him with rest, telling him that he needed sleep, to be renewed. But whenever he did so, those same damn nightmares would greet him yet again, giving him a nonsensical taste of beasthood. '''

'''The screams. The blood. The madness. It all became a swirling vortex that struck Yarlen awake like a newly lit match, gasping for air and desperate for release. But, every time he did, he knew that there would be no escape. The Huntsman’s Moon took care of that. '''

'''At times, Iscariot was a benevolent Lord that took care of his struggling people in times of great need. At others—like now—he was cruel and cared little for the struggling ants of Saint Victoria, watching them squirm through the dirt and rubble, trying to build something serviceable to his own amusement. It almost seemed that Iscariot had two faces: a mask of kindness, and a mask of cruelty. Depending on which one he donned, it would spell the fate of their people in both blood and stone. Iscariot demanded judgment upon the beastly swine only, and if a Hunter did not Hunt, then they would face his wrath as well. '''

'''That’s what was happening to Yarlen, no doubt. Iscariot’s Curse bred deep inside his aching mind, disrupting his senses, showing the man his true self. The demons below were hungry, after all. Hungry for another compatriot to serve with in the slaughter. They were once people as well, Yarlen reminded himself. People with lives and struggles and worries. But, like every person, they delved into sin. Unlike most, however, they delved far too deep into this sin to be forgiven. Too far into the stretching catacombs of the mind and ill-intent. They saw things without the permission of their Lord, and so they paid with their sanity, and—debatably—their lives, or so the Church relayed when explaining the malicious origins of foul creatures. '''

'''Now, in the depths, they would suffer forevermore in the darkness of the night with the haunting visage of the blood moon hung above their heads, judging their sins until their lives were forfeit. Or, until the blazing sun rose above. But that would never happen. Not as long as Father Iscariot was watching, cursing their kind with subtle words of disdain and ruin. '''

'''That’s why Yarlen did what he did: slipping the looped rope around his neck, tightening the deadly twine with callused fingers. Deep breaths shifted through Yarlen’s frame as he turned, quaking hand gripping the door handle to the outside world. With nothing else to lose, Yarlen threw open the door, being met by the horrid wails of the wind, tearing at his mind like nails on a chalkboard. '''

'''Before the arsonist was the catwalk that would soon seal his fate, watching over the city on a much more personal level than just the clocktower itself. Soon though, it would be the vantage point for Yarlen’s death, acting as the jettison for the noose. A death at his own hands, but a death for a cause he failed. There was no turning back now. The Church would not accept such a failure like himself back into their private ranks, after all. '''

'''Upon the scripture of the Saint, it was said that an Ash Mouth’s duty was to turn everything the Lord deemed unclean to ash, just like those who were judged before their God. ‘Be they beast or be they sane, their duty remained pure’, the direct line explained. But Yarlen—one always hesitant to take a human’s life—had failed, so now there was no home left to return to. A blade would find him inevitably if he escaped, and that was assuming the beasts did not find him first. '''

'''Taking another shaky breath that wafted out into the chilling night air, Yarlen took a feverish step onto an extended piece of metal girder, stretching out into the gaping maw of death. Step after step he took, securing his rope around a safety harness at the side, once used for repairs in a long distant past. But, in this case, it was not keeping him safe, but to secure his death as a guaranteed future. It would be a shame to lose a man like himself, Yarlen thought, but with his fate in his own hands, the exterminator was honestly glad he would go out this way, looking out over the city streets with the backdrop of the Huntsman’s Moon shining overhead like a brilliant star.'''

'''Smoke burned from the pyres below, creating a supernatural image around the moon, almost like the wings of death spread out in protest. But yet—even with the image presented—Yarlen could only see beauty in the scarlet orb. How it hung above the city, presence clear and purpose fulfilled. It gave him pleasure to see it one last time as he placed his hat upon his chest, watching the sky continue to fume.'''

'''That was until the nightmares came back, of course. Flashing before his very eyes, Yarlen saw them all. All of his regrets and sins, presented before him like he was a convict during a trial. The people he had killed. The idols he had destroyed with no semblance of remorse. The horrid things he had done that made him wake up in a sweat and—more disturbingly—aroused. All of these visions—and more—were presented to the Ash Mouth as his hands flew up to his face and his screams became heard, trying to rub the vicious apprehensions out of his eyes, feet guiding him back.'''

'''As he stumbled and turned, the beasts below looked up, hearing his screams with relished zeal. They took to the streets, surrounding the perimeter of the clock tower to watch the strangling dot high above, screaming in fright as he fought with himself. '''

'''Returning to the terrified arsonist, his feet—never listening to his wishes—continued to guide him back. Further and further he went, moving on and on until only empty space remained. Hands flailing, Yarlen tried to catch the metal girder, but his fingers missed, so he fell, hands continuing to fly as he tried to catch the rope. To try and save himself. But nothing would save the man as the rope became tight, and the horrendous screams below arose into a blasphemous chant. '''

'''“Death!” The demons cried, raising their weapons into the sky, jaws wide with savage glee. Their words, while simple and almost childish in a way, only made the man’s body shiver more in the rampant cold as he continued to struggle. “Death! Death! Death!” They continued to chant as Yarlen looked down at their licentious hordes, spanning down multiple city blocks, filled with these profaned devils. ‘Human devils’, certain Iscariot members called them. Clad in the clothing of man, but yet so very changed with the blood of the impure running through their veins like wildfire. '''

'''Then the true monsters came, large and questioning the idea that they had ever been human to begin with. Mouths large with hooked teeth. Bodies the size of carriages and chests agape with rows upon rows of gnashing jaws. Their claws were like scythes to rake flesh with rampant ease. These creatures—and more—made themselves known before the dying Hunter, laughing at his misfortune. They took on many forms, ranging from lupin freaks and their close cousins to other such monsters of twisted flesh. However, the gnashing, twisted gullets of reforged rib cages filled Yarlen’s eyes as he struggled, fingers tightening, breath shaking, and bleeding eyes rapidly fluttering like moth wings ascending to a fixture of light. '''

'''But, before the darkness finally consumed the man with the rising tide of voices demanding his demise, his eyes fell upon the reverent image of the moon, crimson red and unfeeling. He honestly wished he could take its place, merely watching the most recent farce presented with no direct correlation with the hanging deadman Yarlen would soon become.'''

'''With that thought in mind, Yarlen succumbed, becoming another lost soul during the night of beasts and Hunters. This was soon followed by the hoarse cheers of the beastly crowd below, oblivious to what they had become. This was the fate of Belton. And soon, it would burn for its sins. All beneath the gaze of the blood red moon. '''

I hope you guys enjoyed the story. Remember to feel free and leave any comments, and let me know if you want to see the rest. Ahmen.