interlude .

Marred by a wolfish crux

This, dear reader, is an interlude sitting comfortably between chapter’s three and four of my grimdark, Bloodborne-inspired novel using the placeholder name Project Misery. Inspired also by Daniel Defoe’s Journal Of A Plague Year and the video game A Plague Tale.

The gruelling Victorian city of Shaw, and its neighbouring settlements bleeding from the circuitous walls, are suffering a fatal plague that is turning infected into vacuous beasts. The Prenderghast Exorcist Company, working out of the imposing Pesthouse — a great, looming cathedral within the very centre of Shaw — is the Seocness’ only opponent; and they are utterly merciless.

This is a piece designed to give readers a vision of the world. Upon the edge of the Marrows, the forest and marshland that blocks Shaw from the rest of the world, a young boy writes in his diary the events leading up to his best friend’s execution.

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Fog by Aurru on DeviantArt

I watched Juliette bleed today.

They hung her from her ankles like swine and slit her throat. She was my friend, but I could not let them know that. So I had to watch her bleed. Mama kept a close eye on me. I felt her gaze bore into the back of my head but I could not let her see my anguish. My god…

It hasn’t stop raining.

Whenever we hear of neighbouring hamlets and towns succumbing to a paranoid insanity, we always mourn and walk with solemn faces, but it is fabricated to hide our relief that it is not us. I think we enjoy it. I know mama does, and she does not really try to hide that. Not in front of us, anyway. That is to say, we innately relish in the misfortune of others, but consciously are disgusted at ourselves for feeling that way. We lived like this for as long as I can recall.

That was until Mrs. Moreau threw up blood while she was collecting her groceries, and the butcher noticed black specks when he cleaned it up.

At first, all was serene. The butcher alerted the Cytes and he took Mrs. Moreau in the night. I saw it because Juliette knew it was going to happen. Her papa was the butcher, and he was not the kind of man to voice sympathy nor delicacy in these situations. He was a cruel man, I think.

Author Note: “Cyte”, pronounced K-eye-t /kʌɪt/, is a rather malignant slang term used by the populace to refer to Exorcists; regardless of rank nor occupation. If one bears the Exorcist’s insignia, one is a Cyte. Your author believes it is quite a derogatory term to one as Miserere Hardwyck… but rather appropriate to one as Lord Victor Baron. Alas, allow us to continue this tragic account.
~ Bartholomew Stewart.

I saw my first execution when I was twelve; two weeks ago. That is quite old, mama told me, and I should be thankful. I was not thankful. Not when I watched Juliette sob and sob and wail like an infant as her papa swung to and fro in the wind. He was a cruel man.

I felt sick but I did not throw up. I was frightened people would think I was infected too. The Exorcists were everywhere — more I have ever seen. I felt like cattle while they the shepherd’s dogs. I think they knew. They knew we were doomed.

It happened quickly, but in a gradual kind of way. Fits of violence exhausted every street corner; neighbours accused one another; friends became swift foes; families lost their sanity — yes, that is what happened. A loss of wit, even the clean ones.

Our streets, once permeated in nothing but shit and mud, became bloody. People slaughtered their horses when their hooves and teeth began to sharpen; their dogs when they’d snarl and snap; cats and rats that grew too large. It was three days before mama stopped her denial and considered moving to the city. I refused, though. It is no safer there, and the walls frighten me.

It was on the week anniversary of the Butcher’s execution when I experienced, for the first time, a real feral. The Cytes told us that the Seocness effects people differently, and some turn wolfish or… birdlike. Lycans and Harpies like something fantastical. I didn’t like these names, they were too imaginary. But now I see why they used them.

I do not know how she kept it so hidden. She had a large family, and her face was seen throughout the village. She was a member of the two farmer families we covet. Her name was Marie Tarrou. Juliette would jest that she was part-shire horse, but I know she admired her strength. She had long, chestnut hair that was her pride. Juliette would braid it for her each week to keep it from her face as she worked. It was an inconvenience, but I think she wanted to feel pretty too.

It was raining, and I was fetching firewood, and it was daylight. I stepped in puddles of black-speckled blood but I could not show my disgust — this was good, the efforts of the Cytes, and I should be thankful that I have not been mauled. I had to walk to the edge the village’s limits, to the very border of the Marrows which mama always warned to stay far from. But what remained of Mr. Buckshaw traversed the Leech Ways the day before.

I walked past the Tarrou farm. It was deathly silent, and wan like it was sick. The wheat was tall but long past its prime to be harvested. Scarecrows startled me as they hung there untouched by the suffering that surrounded them. Crows sat nonchalant on their shoulders — that made me smile, until one turned its head and I noticed the crude hook of its beak. Nothing is safe here, and I would tell mama we should leave to the city when I get home.

I followed the path through the wheat. It scratched at my arms and enshrouded me until I felt it difficult to breathe. Fear began to churn and I thought of Juliette — she ignited my courage. There was a scarecrow in front of me, planted on the path, and I did not recall it being there before. I heard men’s laughter and instinctively hid myself in the crops. Exorcists, I saw, stood smoking and jeering at the figure strapped to the pole. I always liked their coats; large black overcoats. Like my father’s coat — that’s mine now.

But I did not like these. Three of them, laughing at the body they had strapped to the pole, stuffed with hay and made to wear a hat. I felt an unnatural sense of duty as I recognised the scarecrow — Arthur, a schoolmate of mine. Juliette was sweet on him once.

He was half-eaten, it looked. Their weapons had marred him, and I recognised his countenance despite the distortion to his skull. Bones protruded and his legs were too long, but that was Arthur.

I ran at them with a pathetic cry that I am chagrinned to recall. I pushed one and he struck me which blinded me a moment, and made me feel giddy. I heard their laughs but they were distant, like echoes or something muffled underwater. My neck was wet and I fell down on my arse. I could see again, but they were not laughing anymore. It was raining again, but the rain was too dark and stained my clothes.

Before me, a distance away in the gloom of evening, standing in the clearing beyond the tunnel of wheat, was a wolf. Its eyes glowed white, reflecting the waned moon behind me. But it was wrong. Like Arthur, its limbs were too long, and it had, below its waist, the body of a woman. A mane of chestnut hair ran down its back, and some hung in loose braids either side of its great head.

I felt quite sick.

In its maw hung the torso, now armless, of one of the Cytes. The rest were strewn, in pieces, in a trail leading to the Lycan. I kept quite still and it left me alone. I wonder if it could not see me, even. Marie had to wear spectacles sometimes.

I am guilty now. Guilty of infection, and of self-preservation at any and all cost. I showed Juliette how my nails were turning black and she laughed. She told me not to worry, but I did worry. I worried too much and now she is dead.

We were walking home through a back alley and I befell a coughing fit. Blood scratched my throat and I began to shake. No one saw but it was midday and we heard frantic footfalls in our direction. She did not even hesitate, only wiped my mouth with her sleeve and transferred it to her chin. She doubled over and it went too fast — far too fast. They had her by her hair and called her a fatherless wench. They comforted me and I hid my hands. I could only weep.

I watched her bleed that same day. Nobody questioned it, nobody examined her. Not like they do in the walls. We do not matter so much, not on the outskirts. Shaw is guarded so they take less care.

I have little time now but I do not want to bleed, hang, nor burn.

I pray the Leech Ways are clear for Juliette. I, in turn, will flee to the Marrows.

Forgive me, mama.

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Not sure I’m overly happy with this piece to be honest, and it will likely change in time, but I’ve been desperate to get something Misery related out for AGES. So here ya go! Hope you enjoyed either way <3

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