Chapter Text
The City-State of Yharnam, equal parts illustrious and mysterious to the outside world, held a great deal of dark and terrible secrets. From looming far-off threats like the castle to the north and its fiendish inhabitants to a twisted subterranean labyrinth whose tunnels echoed with the screeches of less-than-human ghouls or an entire community enslaved by a coven of witches, indeed, Yharnam was no place for those of a more nervous disposition. Yet of all these dreadful truths, one stood above the rest for it did not hide away outside the city limits nor did it rest deep underground, rather - and perhaps most frighteningly of all - it had simply been forgotten by the city, left unchecked and unconfronted. I speak, of course, of
Yahar’gul Village and the School of Mensis.
Yahar’gul, situated to the east of the city, locked away from the rest of Old Yharnam and overshadowed by the lofty Cathedral Ward, had retreated from the public conscience around the time that The Church first rose to prominence. Unknown to all except those in the highest echelons of The Choir, the village adopted the title ‘Unseen’ and had swiftly attracted many an unsavory character. For you see, The Healing Church was not wholly beloved and in its forced proselytism of Yharnam gained as many enemies as it did followers. Enemies that would go on to form Mensis, an organization whose beliefs and practices sat as the antithesis to those of The Church.
Despite this, the specific circumstances surrounding the formation of the School of Mensis remain a mystery - there exists no date, no records, naught even a name to put to a founder - but one can be sure the origins of The Church's greatest enemy can be traced back to its early years when hunters were ten a penny and the Yharnam Endemic was little more than anxious whispers of blood and beasts.
And thus we begin our story, years later, in a village that lay forgotten in the shadows of The Grand Cathedral and sealed away by the smoldering remains of Old Yharnam; in a dark sprawling campus wherein lay the candle-lit chambers of its headmaster. Incense drifted lazily through the air and the only sounds were the mutterings of a mad yet brilliant scholar and the scratching of a quill against parchment.
Micolash, Headmaster of the School of Mensis sat hunched over a desk, his face mere inches from the page he was inscribing with the very words falling from his mouth:
"The hunters are dead. The Church has failed as I predicted..."