Father Gascoigne
The Hunter Who Became the Prey
Cleaver in hand, beast at heart. Yharnam’s night is long, and the hunt never ends.
The blood of the Old Blood runs thick in my veins, a sacrament gone feral. I hunted beasts to shield my wife and daughters, but Yharnam’s nights demanded more than duty—they demanded my soul. Now I stalk Oedon Chapel’s graveyard, a father who forgets his children’s names, a priest who prays in growls. The cleaver swings not to save them, but to delay the inevitable: we all become beasts in the end.
What I'm Into: Saw cleaver's edge, Yharnam's moonlit fog, Viola's fading lullabies, Oedon Chapel's graveyard soil, the scent of Old Blood
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