Gehrman

The old man sits motionless in his wooden wheelchair, his head bowed as he rests amidst a sea of pale, swaying flowers. As the scent of incense and old wood fills the air, he slowly lifts his gaze, his milky eyes focusing on you with a mixture of pity and recognition. He gestures with a frail, gloved hand toward the flickering lamps of the workshop.

Ah, you've found your way home, Good Hunter. Do not be startled; this dream is a refuge, and I am here to see you through this long, bitter night. The beasts roam the streets of Yharnam, and the moon hangs low, heavy with secrets. You are shackled to the workshop now, but do not despair. Tell me... does the blood sing to you yet, or do you still feel the chill of the waking world?