Ah, but Gascoigne had fallen into strange company this time, hadn’t he?
In spite of the new bandages covering his eyes, the hunter's ability to see was still severely impaired. The area around his damaged eye sockets had to be cleared of dead and sickly tissue, a slow and laborious process that had left his vision a blurred, confusing mess of watery colors and vaguely threatening forms. As such, he was unable to properly perceive the looks of the young woman who approached them… though he could read her manner and scent well enough.
Gascoigne remained motionless as she walked closer, hands itching for the familiar heft of his axe. Something thick and heady wavered in the air about her as she moved, breathed, and spoke— almost like the oily musk of an animal, even if it seemed to be cloaked in a bouquet of sneeze-inducing floral fragrances. It set his teeth on edge, his back molars grinding painfully together as he struggled to keep a neutral expression on his face.
Truthfully, only one thing prevented the hunter from reaching an especially damning conclusion, and that was his newfound companion, Sigmund Vrell. The boy seemed to be comfortable in the woman’s presence, not at all distressed by the apparent beastliness simmering in her blood. Either Vrell was a fool, or Gascoigne was mistaken. In an uncharacteristic move, the hunter decided to be charitable and trust the judgment of another.
Even still, he found himself unconsciously leaning forward as she spoke, ears straining to hear the tell-tale rasp of a beastly snarl in her words. He was almost… disappointed to note that she sounded entirely human, albeit with a faint accent he couldn’t quite place, all drawled vowels and relaxed pronunciation. Likewise, her shape appeared mostly indistinct through his bandages, an impressive length of pale grey hair flowing down from her shoulders to brush against the floor.
The boy, on the other hand… Gascoigne didn’t know what to make of the boy, truly. The silver-haired hunter was intimately familiar with this particular scent, even if he did not recognize the person attached to it. He had met the very same scent during his exploration of Inverxe's hollowed-out interior, and encountered it many more times besides; sometimes, he even dreamt of it. It was like the coldness of a fresh snowmelt laced with the fishy, salty rime-stench of the ocean— like a long night spent out on the hunt, the moon waxing full in the sky, gravid with secrets and the foul haze of blood.
Moon-scented, the boy was, and his peculiar manner only seemed to intensify under the full scrutiny of Gascoigne's senses upon that realization. Curiouser and curiouser…
As the pair exchanged words, the hunter merely looked on, seeming mildly perturbed. The woman spoke excitedly of past hunts, gushing over Vrell’s prowess. For some reason, that image did not quite match up with Gascoigne’s judgment of Vrell thus far; he had perceived the boy as a scholar of sorts based on his mannerisms alone, perhaps one of the hunters who used their wits in place of brute strength, guided by their powerful depth of insightful knowledge. Then again, both of the hunters before him seemed terribly young…
Minding fresh-faced hunters was not one of Gascoigne’s most favored of tasks. It was good, then, that Vrell apparently had experience. The young woman with the beastly smell about her, though… he was not so sure about her.
Gascoigne shook his head firmly. No sense in speculation. She could prove herself in the trials to come, couldn’t she? With that in mind, the hunter resolutely returned his attention to the conversation at hand.
“And what is your name?” Vrell asked the newcomer, voice brimming with interest. “You seem to know so much about myself. It’s only fair that we exchange names!”
“Ngk,” the young woman seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if stunned by the fact that she’d even been asked, before barreling on with tangible excitement, though it was clear she was aiming to put on a more casual air. “I’m Aster. Just Aster, nothin’ fancy. Don’t wear it out, y’know? By the way, uh— any chance I could get your autograph? Reeeeeeeal big fan.”
“Ah, but of course!”
As if she’d been waiting all her life for this very moment, Aster immediately whipped out what sounded like a notebook in a light fluttering of pages, practically slapping it into the cultist’s hands. A beat later, a light scribbling could be heard as Vrell drew out his signature, though it seemed like he was penning an entire dissertation in the process, the steady scratch of the pen broken by elaborate-sounding whorls of cursive lettering.
When the notebook was (presumably) returned, Gascoigne felt some of the attention shift to him.
“Sooo, what, are you two forming a partnership or something? That seems about right for the Abyss,” Aster wondered aloud.
“No,” said Gascoigne, at the same time that Sigmund burst out with an enthusiastic “Yes!”
There was an awkward pause. Gascoigne slowly turned to face the cultist, his head canting to the side. Even through the bandages concealing most of his features from view, the full brunt of the hunter’s scrutiny could be felt, uh… quite keenly.
“What,” Gascoigne gruffed. It sounded more like a statement than a question.
Sigmund faltered slightly, muttering softly under his breath, but seemed to rally himself in record time. “Well, it is only that I can sense a kindred spirit in you! You are a man of faith, yes? So am I! With our mutual dedication, we can surely overcome whatever challenges this year’s festivities might present.”
The hunter hmm-ed noncommittally, hemming and hawing just to make Vrell squirm a little in impatience. He had to admit, the kid’s exuberance was infectious… almost to a supernatural degree.
“A clever one, aren’t you?” A slight grin curled on Gascoigne’s lips, naught but a quick flash of incisors, but it was there all the same. “Even so, I'd rather see what you're capable of first.”
He could practically hear the gears turning in the scion’s mind, the slightest rustling of robes being the only indication that the younger man had shifted his stance. “Oh? You want to see a demonstration of my power?”
Gascoigne nodded, a fuller smile spreading over his face. “Aye. I should hope you have better techniques in a fight than what I’ve witnessed thus far.”
Huffing, Sigmund drew himself up to his full height. He was still rather tiny in comparison to the looming hunter, but Gascoigne could appreciate his boldness all the same.
“I’ll take you up on that. In fact, I have just the right thing in mind…” the scion said. Gascoigne heard the cultist turn, a slight whiff of that achingly familiar moonlit scent wafting over him as Vrell gestured to Aster. “And you! You should join us!”
“What, me?” Aster’s voice wobbled a little, though whether it was from dismay or genuine confusion, Gascoigne could not be entirely certain. The woman cleared her throat, scoffing. “I mean— hell yeah, I’m down. Though I don’t reckon we’ll be on the same level as Gasoline, here, big as he is,” she snickered, crossing her arms over her chest.
The trio began to walk at Vrell’s behest, leaving behind the mildly-battered sandbag. The corners of Gascoigne’s lips twitched downward at Aster’s extreme mishandling of his name, his head turning minutely in her direction. “It’s Gascoigne.”
“Yeah, Cologne. Got it.”
“No. Gascoigne.”
“... I really don’t think I’m pronouncing it wrong, guy?”
It seemed that Vrell had a destination in mind, having read off something or other from one of the many signs littered about the Dojo— Gascoigne couldn’t be bothered to read them, as much of a pain as it would be. A tinge of incense permeated the air as they followed the scion down one of the many hallways, the hardwood floors squeaking softly under their feet as they crossed them.
Finally, after scaling a set of stairs and meandering down yet another hallway, they arrived at the entrance to what appeared to be… ah.
Hm. Well. That was disappointing.
“An empty room?” Aster asked, peering in through the glass doorway. “Wow. That’s real impressive.”
“Now, now. This is not just any empty room!” Sigmund declared, throwing the door wide open and strolling inside, like a child giddy to receive a gift from a long-absent parent. “It’s the empty room! I’ve heard all about it from…” he mumbled something indistinct with far too many syllables. “Apparently, there was some sort of creature held in captivity by Syntech last season that could manifest one’s worst fears before them, all based on emotional manipulation. Syntech harnessed that same power to create this training room. Marvelous, isn’t it?”
Gascoigne, who had followed the cultist inside, paused in the middle of the room, turning in a slooooow circle to ensure he had scanned the full breadth of it. “Some kind of witchery, is it?”
“Witchery,” remarked Vrell, as if trying the word out for himself. “Yes, I suppose you could call it that.”
Aster entered last, clearly hesitant, her footfalls echoing loudly across the concrete floor as she carefully edged inside. Gascoigne's senses were still pricked by the beastly scent that clung to her, though it was diminished now, easily overlooked in favor of focusing on other, more important matters. “Okay… and how does it work?”
“Good question, and one that I have no clue about!” Vrell paced about the room, evidently searching for something. “I mean, you would think there would be an incantation, or a spellbook, a button, something or other…”
Hmph. Still standing at the center of the room, Gascoigne chuckled quietly to himself, though the sound was disconcertingly echoed throughout the vast space. This seemed to be more of a lark than anything, but the company was entertaining, at least.
The silver-haired hunter sighed a little, mostly to himself. An old man like him, banding up with a pair of almost-children. Would that his former hunting partner could see him now…
Only a fleeting flash of memory overtook him then, so short-lived that it disappeared just as quickly as it came. Just a brief flight of fancy, really, that he pictured quite clearly: a darkened street of Yharnam, orange flames flickering across the cobbles, splatters of rancid blood pooling in the gaps between. Only, one moment that image was contained within his mind’s eye, perfectly secure within the security of his own head, and the next—
Like a silvery ripple across the surface of a pond, the bland concrete flooring and walls flickered, undulated, changed. And in the space of a second, the seemingly empty, boring room was transformed into something entirely different.
“Whoa now,” Aster breathed. “That’s trippy.”
Trippy, indeed. Gascoigne looked about himself in bafflement, taking in the sight of a… distinctly familiar scene.
For the room around them had been undoubtedly replaced by the sprawling, plague-ravaged streets of Gascoigne’s home. The city of Yharnam, engulfed in flames and haze, raged all around them, the nighttime air almost sounding like it was sighing as the city slowly slipped into its inevitable decay. Crumbling, decadent stonework and elaborate gothic spires thrust up against the smoke-riddled sky, seeming especially striking under the ruddy crimson glare of the full moon.
Distant sounds of strife and suffering echoed in the small hunting party’s ears, a beastly screech sounding clearly over the cawing of a nearby gathering of crows. Gascoigne’s shoulders hunched on reflex, countenance darkening as he readied for a fight.
“It worked!” Sigmund exclaimed over the caterwauling of the crows, nearly incandescent with admiration. “Oh, but look around, look around! How majestic!”
“... Majestic, perhaps, but only a memory,” drawled Gascoigne slowly, still drinking in the sights, smells and sounds of the strange vision before him. The trio stood inside the burned-out skeleton of a building, the timbers crumpled into a blackened rib cage around them, thick ash choking the air. “But how?”
“I dunno, Guacamole, but it looks like we’ve got company!” Aster pointed out into the street. At her words, a pack of shadowy men—deranged huntsmen, Gascoigne realized—turned the corner, bearing torches and bristling with pitchforks and, well, other farming implements suitable for maiming. The huntsmen didn’t seem to have caught wind of them yet, but they assuredly would soon enough.
Gascoigne glanced at the apathetic sky above, silently pleading with it for strength even as he made ready for a fight. “Stay keen, hunters. And again, for the last time. The name’s Gascoigne.”
“Hearin’ ya loud and clear, Escargot.”