“Much less to your name than me? Impossible! What makes you think a mercenary has anything to their name? If they did, they would not be a mercenary.” Perhaps for fun? But no, not around here, not around these parts. It’s a dangerous line of work. Always traveling, always taking the odd job for some drachmae to eat and sleep. Always watching for people out to get their vengeance. It’s a last resort kind of job, for wayward Greeks with no state loyalty who don’t have the discipline for military.

The rest of what Maria said, Kassandra isn’t entirely sure about. So vague. The host of a nightmare. Now, what does that even mean. Poetic flair, probably. This woman does look like the type. But, apparently, a bodyguard for a child and a beast hunter? It’s all very contradictory. If Kassandra didn’t know any better, she’d say a hunter of Artemis. But this woman isn’t from here. Who knows what kinds of gods and goddesses they worship in Cainhurst. “You’ve chosen a interesting time to get lost in Greece. There’s a war going on right now.”

aporthetos‌:

“A mercenary, yes. But more than that. I’ll take on any job, not just violent ones. Deliveries. Gathering special herbs and berries. Escorting people. Guarding. Any task, really, for the right price. Around here we’re called misthios. Workers for hire,” Kassandra explains. She takes a few steps away from the tree, leading Maria over to the road. There, she clicks her tongue a few times to attract her horse’s attention. “Phobos, come.” 

Once she has hand on the horse’s reigns, she starts to walk. It shouldn’t be too far. Just past the trees in her line of sight. “And you? What do you do?” Kassandra thought it was fairly obvious what she was based on her appearance. The armor. The weapons. The broad shoulders and big biceps. The faded scars. But this woman, this Maria, with her oddly ornate layers, her swords, and her dumb hat. Kassadra would have guessed an aristocrat of sorts. Maybe a flamboyant philosopher. But no civilian carries such heavy weaponry, even if a noble.

Maria’s gaze slides to the sound of clopping hooves against the soft soil. Watching as a horse approaches. It has been a long time since she has seen one alive. As the woman begins to walk with the reins in hand, Maria follows after. Footsteps steady and slow beside the woman.

“I’m afraid I have much less to my name than you. I am but a hunter of beast, a guardian for a lost wizened child. A host to a nightmare, though none of that matters here.”  It is of little importance if this woman thinks her mad. Maria knows of the place she had come from. Of the twisted unending nightmare. Remembers the feel of her own blade sinking deep into flesh as she fought to protect the secret beyond the tower.

“A mercenary, yes. But more than that. I’ll take on any job, not just violent ones. Deliveries. Gathering special herbs and berries. Escorting people. Guarding. Any task, really, for the right price. Around here we’re called misthios. Workers for hire,” Kassandra explains. She takes a few steps away from the tree, leading Maria over to the road. There, she clicks her tongue a few times to attract her horse’s attention. “Phobos, come.” 

Once she has hand on the horse’s reigns, she starts to walk. It shouldn’t be too far. Just past the trees in her line of sight. “And you? What do you do?” Kassandra thought it was fairly obvious what she was based on her appearance. The armor. The weapons. The broad shoulders and big biceps. The faded scars. But this woman, this Maria, with her oddly ornate layers, her swords, and her dumb hat. Kassadra would have guessed an aristocrat of sorts. Maybe a flamboyant philosopher. But no civilian carries such heavy weaponry, even if a noble.

aporthetos‌:

Kassandra seems a bit more jovial when the newcomer at least seems open to experiencing Greece. A bit of a smile, a hearty chuckle. “Indeed, we will, traveler. You see, Greece has the finest wines, some amphoras even blessed by the presbyteros of Dionysus! Come, come, I will take you to a vineyard I know nearby.” And hopefully there will be a doctor nearby. Kassandra makes gestures to follow along. They’ll be walking it seems. She’s convinced riding horseback will be too rough for a lady so severely injured, even if faster.

“Hm? What do I hunt? Ha! The question should be what don’t I hunt?” Though, she isn’t sure what her armor has to do with hunting. Most hunters don’t wear armor at all. They’re usually wearing a bit of light leather or cloth. And they hunt with bows and arrows. Why would an archer need armor? They are usually far from the danger. Those who wear armor around these parts are soldiers. Generals. Polemarches. Or, like her, mercenaries. They are fighters, not hunters. Kassandra happens to be both. 

“Ibex, mostly. Boars. Deer. Goats. Sometimes, bears. Sometimes sharks. Pirates, bandits. Any man with a bounty. I will hunt anything for the right drachmae, and I will do it well.” 

Dionysus. An unfamiliar word. But with the rest surely Dionysus must be some sort of place. Maria is not completely sure. There seems to be no Church of Healing here. No influence of the scourge of beast. At least she knows of wine, though it has fallen out of use with the surgence of blood. What is the use of it after all when blood is more intoxicating than the drink. A bitter thought, one she drags herself from lest she get lost in thought.

It is becoming clear that there are no beast here. For all of those are animals and humans, but not blood drunk ones. “A mercenary then?” There is no disgust that comes with the question, no inflection of distaste. Mercenaries have their uses just as hunters do. If this is part of a nightmare, why does it seem more of a pleasant dream? Something will be unearthed here. It’s just a matter of time. Maria steps over to where she had awoken leaning against the tree. But other than the now dried puddle of blood there is nothing of interest. 

A shame. “Very well, lead on and i will follow.”

Kassandra seems a bit more jovial when the newcomer at least seems open to experiencing Greece. A bit of a smile, a hearty chuckle. “Indeed, we will, traveler. You see, Greece has the finest wines, some amphoras even blessed by the presbyteros of Dionysus! Come, come, I will take you to a vineyard I know nearby.” And hopefully there will be a doctor nearby. Kassandra makes gestures to follow along. They’ll be walking it seems. She’s convinced riding horseback will be too rough for a lady so severely injured, even if faster.

“Hm? What do I hunt? Ha! The question should be what don’t I hunt?” Though, she isn’t sure what her armor has to do with hunting. Most hunters don’t wear armor at all. They’re usually wearing a bit of light leather or cloth. And they hunt with bows and arrows. Why would an archer need armor? They are usually far from the danger. Those who wear armor around these parts are soldiers. Generals. Polemarches. Or, like her, mercenaries. They are fighters, not hunters. Kassandra happens to be both. 

“Ibex, mostly. Boars. Deer. Goats. Sometimes, bears. Sometimes sharks. Pirates, bandits. Any man with a bounty. I will hunt anything for the right drachmae, and I will do it well.” 

aporthetos‌:

Cainhurst? Where the hell is a Cainhurst…? Sounds like a word from the Tyrrhenians, maybe Etruscans…? Definitely not a Greek word. But Kassandra doesn’t know much outside of Greece. It could be a place anywhere really. She’s never even met someone from outside of Greece. Not even a Persian. Maybe this woman is a Persian. Doesn’t really look like one though. Too pale.

“Greece? What, have you lived all your life under a boulder? Greece is the greatest nation of all!”

This isn’t even an exaggeration on her part. She fully believes this. Because despite the fact that she hasn’t personally left the peninsula, she’s fully aware of the influential reach Greece has, how it’s currently the cultural epicenter of the Mediterranean world. Their scholars, their philosopher, their government, and empire. Greece is massive enough to have internal conflict, the constant war between Sparta and Athens. 

“Ha! In that case, welcome! You’re about to have the time of your life.” Your very short life. 

The greatest nation, and never before has she heard it uttered. Oh yes, she is far from the nightmare. Further still from Yharnam. Or could this be another facet of it- The world Kos had hailed from? Another nightmare for the blood starved beast who slaughtered her and the wizened child. Brow furrowing, Lady Maria trails her finger along the engraving of her sheathed blade. Yes, that must be it. Simply another facet of their well deserved curse. 

“On that, we shall see.” 

Her hand falls from the sheath of Rakuyo lest the other think it an aggressive stance. “What is it you hunt, wearing armor such as that?” A breeze blows past, pulling her half cape along with it. But her attention is caught by the flowers swaying in the arms of the wind. The Lumenwood Gardens had been so full of lumenflowers. Flowers that she had gifted to dear Adeline, to help her forget. To distract her- Lady Maria closes her eyes against the memories and against the unsurety. Is Adeline here as well?

Cainhurst? Where the hell is a Cainhurst...? Sounds like a word from the Tyrrhenians, maybe Etruscans...? Definitely not a Greek word. But Kassandra doesn’t know much outside of Greece. It could be a place anywhere really. She’s never even met someone from outside of Greece. Not even a Persian. Maybe this woman is a Persian. Doesn’t really look like one though. Too pale.

“Greece? What, have you lived all your life under a boulder? Greece is the greatest nation of all!”

This isn’t even an exaggeration on her part. She fully believes this. Because despite the fact that she hasn’t personally left the peninsula, she’s fully aware of the influential reach Greece has, how it’s currently the cultural epicenter of the Mediterranean world. Their scholars, their philosopher, their government, and empire. Greece is massive enough to have internal conflict, the constant war between Sparta and Athens. 

“Ha! In that case, welcome! You’re about to have the time of your life.” Your very short life. 

aporthetos‌:

More cloth. Layers upons layers of cloth. It’s a rather intricate design though. Pretty, if impractical. The craftsmanship is on par with some of the best artisans she’s seen. Ornate as armor from the finest smiths, only fabric! It’s very impressive how it holds such rigid shape. Kassandra is used to loose draped linens or raggedy burlap. And the color, so dark. Uncomfortable so. Like a horrible omen. It’s all very very odd. 

That’s when Kassandra notices the blood. The white… tourniquet… is stained in red. Still wet, though some of it looks dried. Such a vital spot. Honestly, it’s a wonder how this woman is still standing. So pale too. A clear sign of blood loss. Surely, she has one foot in death’s door. Ah. Perhaps that’s why she’s so bundled up. She’s already going cold. Kassandra is certain she’s talking to a dead woman walking. A soon-to-be corpse that she will inspect further once fallen. 

“Kassandra. Where are you from? You look like royalty.” 

It’s warm here. What a wonder to feel something other than her blood dripping down. It is true enough in a way. The comment on royalty. Her relation to the throne exist. No matter that she had left Cainhurst to join the hunt. Maria wonders then, what has become of her home? What has become of Yharnam. Do beast run rampant in the night? Do the hunters? Maria only mulls it over for a moment, there are far more important things to focus upon at current. 

“Cainhurst originally.” 

She enunciates carefully, slowly, inspecting the armor more closely. It’s simple in many ways, yet functional. Leather and steel combined together to protect against a blade, the look on the others face is that of a warrior. Or that of a woman who expects the other to die. But Maria has already tasted death at her own hand, and at the hunters in the nightmare. What little wonder is a third death? “What manner of place is this Greece?” Be it nightmare or dream?

More cloth. Layers upons layers of cloth. It’s a rather intricate design though. Pretty, if impractical. The craftsmanship is on par with some of the best artisans she’s seen. Ornate as armor from the finest smiths, only fabric! It’s very impressive how it holds such rigid shape. Kassandra is used to loose draped linens or raggedy burlap. And the color, so dark. Uncomfortable so. Like a horrible omen. It’s all very very odd. 

That’s when Kassandra notices the blood. The white... tourniquet... is stained in red. Still wet, though some of it looks dried. Such a vital spot. Honestly, it’s a wonder how this woman is still standing. So pale too. A clear sign of blood loss. Surely, she has one foot in death’s door. Ah. Perhaps that’s why she’s so bundled up. She’s already going cold. Kassandra is certain she’s talking to a dead woman walking. A soon-to-be corpse that she will inspect further once fallen. 

“Kassandra. Where are you from? You look like royalty.” 

aporthetos‌:

Greece is so pretty this time of the year. Gorgeous green meadows in the summer. So it comes as a surprise when Kassandra spots someone so heavily layered in the distance. With such dark colors too. Very uncommon. When she’s close enough, she dismounts her horse Phobos, letting him graze on the nearby patches of grass. She approaches cautiously. And as she grows nearer, she begins to notice just how much more unusual this figure’s attire is. She’s never seen anything like it. She can only see the back, but. From there, her keen eyes can spot a dark leather hat and a very… large chlamys? A cloak. Much bigger than the kind any Greek wears. For the most part, leather serves as armor. But metal is better. And as the head is an incredibly vital spot, Kassandra believes that metal serves better than leather to protect the head. This helm doesn’t even fully protect the head. The back is still exposed. She could so easily shoot at arrow through this person’s skull. Even if she hits leather, she could pierce it. What a dumb useless hat.

“Who are you? You are not from Greece.”

Greece? Never before has she heard of this place. Never seen it on a map before either. Finally she pulls her eyes from that field of green before her to gaze upon the stranger. Only to be met with a confusing sight. Armor, that which does nothing to protect against the claws of a beast. Claws that shred through metal as easily as they shred through flesh. No, armor had long fallen out of use for speed and agility are the only sure fire ways to survive against a beast. So why then, does she wear it? Perhaps there are no beast in this place. Or perhaps she is a fool.  A hand makes its way up beneath the collar of her cravat still wet with her own blood. The tip of a leather clad finger presses against her throat, where it meets soft flesh marred by a scar she cannot feel beneath her gauntlets. That is new.

 Whatever titles she held, she knows they would mean nothing here in this strange dream. “I am Maria and you?”

Finding All Kassandra’s Scars

They’re all so hard to see though :(

She’s got 99 problems, but a muffin top ain’t one.

tag dump

Greece is so pretty this time of the year. Gorgeous green meadows in the summer. So it comes as a surprise when Kassandra spots someone so heavily layered in the distance. With such dark colors too. Very uncommon. When she’s close enough, she dismounts her horse Phobos, letting him graze on the nearby patches of grass. She approaches cautiously. And as she grows nearer, she begins to notice just how much more unusual this figure’s attire is. She’s never seen anything like it. She can only see the back, but. From there, her keen eyes can spot a dark leather hat and a very... large chlamys? A cloak. Much bigger than the kind any Greek wears. For the most part, leather serves as armor. But metal is better. And as the head is an incredibly vital spot, Kassandra believes that metal serves better than leather to protect the head. This helm doesn’t even fully protect the head. The back is still exposed. She could so easily shoot at arrow through this person’s skull. Even if she hits leather, she could pierce it. What a dumb useless hat.

“Who are you? You are not from Greece.”

There’s wind and it tugs at the feather of her hat, pulls at the strands of her hair. When she opens her eyes, it is not to the dusty husk of the Astral Clocktower. But to a sea of green. Flowers as far as her eyes can see. Blades of grass fall from her clothes as she stands. Oh, how she must be dreaming. But then, isn’t she always dreaming? It’s just her dream is a nightmare. 

Behind her, there are footsteps and Lady Maria with her eyes still locked on the field before her she questions softly. “Where have I found myself?”

@aporthetos

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