Bloodborne Dolls Novels & Stories

This whole thing felt wrong as if I was placed in a nightmare, hoping to quickly wake up. A split second later he bit her tearing out a chuck of her neck. I was left dumbfounded as blood splattered all over. My mouth flew open and my eyes widen in shock. I couldn't breathe while the blood flowed down her poor body. Shelby instantaneously zoomed over once the scent of cooper hit the air and viciously commenced to drink from the womb Victor had made. I felt clammy and nauseated as I gagged on the pungent smell of copper, her blood. I couldn't hold back the tears, they slowly escaped rolling down my cheeks.

I even sorted through the old relics on the shelves, scouring the books to see their various uses. A dull blade covered in what I now knew was not rust was responsible for cleaving the souls from all those it touched. For obvious reasons I avoided the thing like the plague. There was a small painting supposedly made with human blood, a doll filled with bleached animal bones, and a gemstone as big as my fist. It reflected my haggard face back at me, only it blackened my eyes like that of a demon, causing me to lurch away in shock. “Creepy,” I muttered, swiping at my tired eyes.

She entered the room and panted. The room was dark but a half wolf sight that Sonya had, helping her to get the vision of the objects inside clearly. She saw some carcass of dead bodies of animals. Those dead animals were hanging upside down. Sonya gasped and she was terrified by those sights. They were killed and their blood was dripped into a big tank as its container. Sonya covered her mouth with a hand. ‘It’s a blood bank for those vampires. It seems that they keep the blood for their consumption in this room.’

And so the wooden dolls has be passed on to the descendants of the clan. If a wrong hand tried to remove the needles in the doll, the clan would die. With every needle they would feel a severe pain and then the last two needle would bring dirt. Because I have the magic of Arkalis, all I need to do is induced Arkalis magic into the dolls as I removed the needles, and no harm would come to the clan. I had the bottle of witch hazel, leaves of vervain and some other minor ingredients. I first started with an unbinding spell, removing the needles from the dolls. Reciting this words;

Cael, who had looked too much like a dead traitor beneath the wrong light. He had not been able to clear the image since he first saw it through the projection. Apollo stopped at the southern stacks, where the surviving fragments of high Emberborn genealogies were kept under silver chains and warded glass. Most of the shelves were empty. Some had been repaired after the burnings, smoothed over by craftsmen too frightened to ask why the Devil wanted new stone built around old absence. Others still bore the scars of fire. Black veins ran through the rock where heat had once bitten too deep, and in those seams, if he looked long enough, he could almost see reflected flame.

Not yet. Grayson caught the blood in a small crystal vial, then held it up to the torchlight. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the blood began to glow—soft at first, then brighter, pulsing with an inner light that cast strange shadows across the chamber. The room went silent. "Old magic," someone whispered. "Gods above, it's true." "Vale blood carries the ancient gift," Grayson confirmed, stoppping the vial and tucking it away. "Rare beyond measure. Powerful beyond estimation. And entirely *yours* if the price is right."

The blood vow wasn’t just a curse it was a binding promise made in desperation, sealing away a power so destructive that entire kingdoms fell beneath its shadow. Sarah’s eyes scanned the text, her breath catching. “The Hollow isn’t just a monster. It’s a force born from human fear and greed... and it feeds on broken promises.” John looked up sharply. “Then what keeps it imprisoned? Just the vow?” “No,” Sarah said quietly. “It’s the sacrifice. The Bloodborne’s lineage is bound to the heart, their blood the lock and key. But the more the vow is broken or manipulated, the weaker the prison becomes.”

Ghostly eyes opened in their sockets, glowing like embers. Cole’s heart slammed against his ribs. The ghosts of wolves — translucent and shimmering — rose around the altar. Their eyes fixed on him, unblinking. The largest of them stepped forward, its muzzle scarred, its form barely holding shape. “Bennett…” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. “You carry the sickness of the First Blood. You were never meant to survive her touch.” Cole’s fists clenched. “Tell me where she is!” “She is becoming,” the spirit growled. “And when she wakes, she will unmake everything — even you.”

He lunges, the blade slicing through the air, aimed at my chest, just above my right breast. I recoil, anticipating the agony. The knife bites deep, and I wince my vision blurring. My blood spills, warm and crimson, sliding down my torso. Denzel's eyes gleam with sadistic pleasure. With a twisted grin, he slits open his own rotting hand, revealing festering flesh. He presses his wounded hand against mine, mingling our skin. I scream as my blood blends with his skin, feeling an eerie presence invade my body. It's as if dark entities are awakening within me.

He turned, a sword flashed, a bright crimson stream colored his tunic and vest. Sailor Fird slashed a man over his face; Albin slashed a buccaneer's neck, the man fell to the ground, trying to stop the life fluid. The poodle around him became larger. Albin turned, made a sign with his arms. The blood, change density, rose up and started boiling. It divided itself into two exact copies of the dead sailors. The first blood-sailor slashed a man across the face, its sword flashed. A man held parts of his skin from falling. A buccaneer rushed, the blood-sailor avoided the blow, slashed the man across his groin. The blood-sailor turned, a harpoon pierced his chest. He slowly returned to the bloody