Dying isn't such a strange thing.
You knew that death came for everyone, even you. Of course...
You knew that death came for everyone, even you. Of course...
Anderson Quest: Killing Vampires and Werewolves and Leprechauns (Hellsing/Bloodborne)
- Thread starter Tricia
- Start date
- Created
- Status
- Complete
- Watchers
- 1,141
- Recent readers
- 0
- Threadmarks
- 239
-
Statistics (237 threadmarks, 180k words)
User Total Tricia 237 -
Loading…
Waking Up
Dying isn't such a strange thing.
You knew that death came for everyone, even you. Of course, you didn't expect it to come so early, but such is life.
Losing, though? That's strange.
You remember tearing through the medieval horde that bastard vampire had summoned, remember the men and women under your command sacrificing themselves to clear a path for you. You remember jamming the Nail into your heart and the smell of dead flesh burning as the thorns consumed your foe.
You remember him ripping your heart out and crushing it in his hand.
How you're alive, you don't know. For some reason, though, you feel at peace. You fought with everything you had and more. You have no regrets.
You hear a cough, the fake sort one uses to break awkward silences. You crane your neck, pretty much the last part of your body you can move. He's standing near you, shuffling his feet in the universal signal for not knowing what to say.
"I'm sorry for all the pedophile jokes," he finally says. "They were uncalled for and they got old fast."
You figure that's about the closest thing to a genuinely kind statement he's capable of making. You laugh through lungs reduced to powder on the blood-soaked London streets and smile with your half-broken face.
"Just be sure you kill those Nazi twats. I'll gut you myself if you die before pulling that off."
He laughs at that, a real laugh. He'll miss you, you realize. You'll miss him, too.
Your men are gathered around you, tears in their eyes. Heinkel and Yumi are having trouble even looking at you, as though the idea of you dying is so alien to their minds that they refuse to acknowledge it. You never did manage to find an Italian; guess they'll have to settle for being the Post-1943 Axis of Righteousness. Doesn't have the same ring to it.
You're still smiling even as the quiet wind carries more and more of you away. You assure the remnants of Section XIII that it will be alright. The sun rises, untarnished by the carnage of the night. It's beautiful. You look at it with your one remaining eye and breathe out a final prayer.
And then that little cuntwaffle butler crushes your head.
--
"Ahh, you've found yourself a hunter."
A voice stirs you awake. For a second, you think it might be Jesus, but even accepting that there were a few liberties taken with the translations, you're fairly certain Jesus wasn't an Eastern European woman. Your eyes snap open and you look about wildly, your body whole and unbroken.
Heaven is a lot drearier than you expected. There's just one house and the ground is a lot less cloud-ish than you'd been given to believe. There is a gate, but it's not very pearly.
You get to your feet so quickly you nearly launch your glasses into the sky. You look about, catching sight of a figure and fixing your gaze on it. And then moving it up. And then a little more.
Fuck, she's tall.
It takes you a second to realize that the reason her hands are bothering you is because they're ball-jointed. There's a giant doll talking to you. Why is the moon so big.
What the fuck.
She tilts her head, seemingly confused by your reaction.
"Good hunter? Are you alright?"
[] "What the fuck."
[] "What the fuck."
[] "WHAT THE FUCK."
[] Write in...
You knew that death came for everyone, even you. Of course, you didn't expect it to come so early, but such is life.
Losing, though? That's strange.
You remember tearing through the medieval horde that bastard vampire had summoned, remember the men and women under your command sacrificing themselves to clear a path for you. You remember jamming the Nail into your heart and the smell of dead flesh burning as the thorns consumed your foe.
You remember him ripping your heart out and crushing it in his hand.
How you're alive, you don't know. For some reason, though, you feel at peace. You fought with everything you had and more. You have no regrets.
You hear a cough, the fake sort one uses to break awkward silences. You crane your neck, pretty much the last part of your body you can move. He's standing near you, shuffling his feet in the universal signal for not knowing what to say.
"I'm sorry for all the pedophile jokes," he finally says. "They were uncalled for and they got old fast."
You figure that's about the closest thing to a genuinely kind statement he's capable of making. You laugh through lungs reduced to powder on the blood-soaked London streets and smile with your half-broken face.
"Just be sure you kill those Nazi twats. I'll gut you myself if you die before pulling that off."
He laughs at that, a real laugh. He'll miss you, you realize. You'll miss him, too.
Your men are gathered around you, tears in their eyes. Heinkel and Yumi are having trouble even looking at you, as though the idea of you dying is so alien to their minds that they refuse to acknowledge it. You never did manage to find an Italian; guess they'll have to settle for being the Post-1943 Axis of Righteousness. Doesn't have the same ring to it.
You're still smiling even as the quiet wind carries more and more of you away. You assure the remnants of Section XIII that it will be alright. The sun rises, untarnished by the carnage of the night. It's beautiful. You look at it with your one remaining eye and breathe out a final prayer.
And then that little cuntwaffle butler crushes your head.
--
"Ahh, you've found yourself a hunter."
A voice stirs you awake. For a second, you think it might be Jesus, but even accepting that there were a few liberties taken with the translations, you're fairly certain Jesus wasn't an Eastern European woman. Your eyes snap open and you look about wildly, your body whole and unbroken.
Heaven is a lot drearier than you expected. There's just one house and the ground is a lot less cloud-ish than you'd been given to believe. There is a gate, but it's not very pearly.
You get to your feet so quickly you nearly launch your glasses into the sky. You look about, catching sight of a figure and fixing your gaze on it. And then moving it up. And then a little more.
Fuck, she's tall.
It takes you a second to realize that the reason her hands are bothering you is because they're ball-jointed. There's a giant doll talking to you. Why is the moon so big.
What the fuck.
She tilts her head, seemingly confused by your reaction.
"Good hunter? Are you alright?"
[] "What the fuck."
[] "What the fuck."
[] "WHAT THE FUCK."
[] Write in...
Limbo
Okay.
Keep your cool. There is a rational explanation for this. You close your eyes and think hard.
The place seems pretty peaceful, which is definitely Heavenish. Nothing's on fire (although that house looks pretty flammable), which is uncharacteristic of the other place.
On the other hand, no angels, no St. Peter, and no trumpets. You think you may have heard a bell of some kind before you died but that could easily have been the sound of the butler's heel shattering your face. Also, graves. You're pretty sure there isn't a huge demand in Heaven for places to bury people.
Some people might be into that kind of thing, though. You're in no position to judge.
You're getting off-track, you realize. You're not in Heaven, you're not in Hell, and you're definitely dead. That just leaves one possibility.
"So this is Purgatory, eh? I figured there'd be more grey mist and lecturing."
The Doll looks even more confused now. You are as well; you led a fairly righteous life and figured you hadn't done anything to warrant a few centuries in the waiting room.
Was it the collateral damage and your near-fetishistic pursuit of violence? It was probably the collateral damage and your near-fetishistic pursuit of violence.
"You are in the Dream, good hunter. Did you not sign the contract?"
Contract? You had a living will, of course, but that was just to make sure your bayonet collection got passed on to Yumi and that Maxwell got a boot to the head if he managed to outlive you. You're pretty sure it didn't have any stipulations that your spirit be shacked up with Pinocchio's MILF.
"Lass, I'm dead, not dreaming. What in the Protestant Hell is goin' on here?" You're getting annoyed. When you get annoyed, you stab things.
Before you can figure out what to stab, though, something tugs on your pant leg. Instinctively, you raise your heel to stomp on it, which you've done on principle ever since your run-in with the Mongolian Death Worms, but the sight that greets you when you look down is enough to freeze you.
There are tiny, shriveled men with vaginas for mouths coming out of the ground. At least you think they're vaginas; the Catholic Church was never big on sex ed. The ones that aren't grabbing you are hurriedly unfurling a scroll. As you watch them, the letters upon the paper shine.
"To escape this dreadful Hunter's Dream, halt the source of the spreading scourge of beasts, lest the night carry on forever."
You're about to stomp them for being cryptic when you hear a giggle from a foot above your head. The Doll is looking fondly at them, like a pet owner watching her cat play with a squeaky toy.
"The little ones are very eager to help you. They are not always so welcoming towards new hunters."
By now, you're not angry. You're just confused. Nothing makes sense and you're fairly certain that your standard solution of ramming bayonets into every moving object until the situation resolves itself won't pay dividends. The Doll composes herself and places a hand on your shoulder. It's warmer than it should be and you're acutely aware that she's breathing.
"If you did not come to us from Yharnam, then I know not how you arrived here. But know this, good hunter: I am merely a Doll, but I am here to look after you."
She smiles warmly. It's one of the first true smiles you've seen in years and it's on the face of a fake woman.
"Speak to Gehrman, up in the house. He will know more, I'm sure."
As you turn to follow her pointing finger, you see her start out of the corner of your eye, covering her mouth with her fingers.
"I am dreadfully sorry; I have forgotten my manners entirely. Might I ask your name, good hunter?"
"Father Alexander Anderson," you answer.
She curtsies, the top of her head still reaching your chin even as she dips low.
"Then I welcome you to the Hunter's Dream, Hunter Anderson."
[] All your cryin' don't do no good. Come on up to the house.
[] Demand further explanation from the Doll. This shit is cray.
[] Wander a bit first. You think you see some of the little vagina-men in a birdbath nearby.
[] Write in...
Keep your cool. There is a rational explanation for this. You close your eyes and think hard.
The place seems pretty peaceful, which is definitely Heavenish. Nothing's on fire (although that house looks pretty flammable), which is uncharacteristic of the other place.
On the other hand, no angels, no St. Peter, and no trumpets. You think you may have heard a bell of some kind before you died but that could easily have been the sound of the butler's heel shattering your face. Also, graves. You're pretty sure there isn't a huge demand in Heaven for places to bury people.
Some people might be into that kind of thing, though. You're in no position to judge.
You're getting off-track, you realize. You're not in Heaven, you're not in Hell, and you're definitely dead. That just leaves one possibility.
"So this is Purgatory, eh? I figured there'd be more grey mist and lecturing."
The Doll looks even more confused now. You are as well; you led a fairly righteous life and figured you hadn't done anything to warrant a few centuries in the waiting room.
Was it the collateral damage and your near-fetishistic pursuit of violence? It was probably the collateral damage and your near-fetishistic pursuit of violence.
"You are in the Dream, good hunter. Did you not sign the contract?"
Contract? You had a living will, of course, but that was just to make sure your bayonet collection got passed on to Yumi and that Maxwell got a boot to the head if he managed to outlive you. You're pretty sure it didn't have any stipulations that your spirit be shacked up with Pinocchio's MILF.
"Lass, I'm dead, not dreaming. What in the Protestant Hell is goin' on here?" You're getting annoyed. When you get annoyed, you stab things.
Before you can figure out what to stab, though, something tugs on your pant leg. Instinctively, you raise your heel to stomp on it, which you've done on principle ever since your run-in with the Mongolian Death Worms, but the sight that greets you when you look down is enough to freeze you.
There are tiny, shriveled men with vaginas for mouths coming out of the ground. At least you think they're vaginas; the Catholic Church was never big on sex ed. The ones that aren't grabbing you are hurriedly unfurling a scroll. As you watch them, the letters upon the paper shine.
"To escape this dreadful Hunter's Dream, halt the source of the spreading scourge of beasts, lest the night carry on forever."
You're about to stomp them for being cryptic when you hear a giggle from a foot above your head. The Doll is looking fondly at them, like a pet owner watching her cat play with a squeaky toy.
"The little ones are very eager to help you. They are not always so welcoming towards new hunters."
By now, you're not angry. You're just confused. Nothing makes sense and you're fairly certain that your standard solution of ramming bayonets into every moving object until the situation resolves itself won't pay dividends. The Doll composes herself and places a hand on your shoulder. It's warmer than it should be and you're acutely aware that she's breathing.
"If you did not come to us from Yharnam, then I know not how you arrived here. But know this, good hunter: I am merely a Doll, but I am here to look after you."
She smiles warmly. It's one of the first true smiles you've seen in years and it's on the face of a fake woman.
"Speak to Gehrman, up in the house. He will know more, I'm sure."
As you turn to follow her pointing finger, you see her start out of the corner of your eye, covering her mouth with her fingers.
"I am dreadfully sorry; I have forgotten my manners entirely. Might I ask your name, good hunter?"
"Father Alexander Anderson," you answer.
She curtsies, the top of her head still reaching your chin even as she dips low.
"Then I welcome you to the Hunter's Dream, Hunter Anderson."
[] All your cryin' don't do no good. Come on up to the house.
[] Demand further explanation from the Doll. This shit is cray.
[] Wander a bit first. You think you see some of the little vagina-men in a birdbath nearby.
[] Write in...
Reeks of Wheelchair
You bow back to her, putting on an embarrassed smile.
"Thank ye for the assistance, Lass. Sorry for gettin' worked up a bit." Mama Anderson didn't raise no ingrate.
The little vagina-men re-roll their scroll when they see you start to walk away, sinking back into the ground. One of them gives you a little thumb-up as he disappears from view. As you walk up the uneven steps, you take another look at your surroundings. Something about them is bothering you, aside from the obvious not-Heavenness of it all and the fact that the moon is fucking huge.
There's a stone birdbath nearby, filled with more of the little men. Most of them are just watching you go, although a couple are holding up bottles of an unidentifiable liquid and making motions you recognize from your time in bazaars abroad. Past them is a line of graves, each with roots in a cup-holder-esque shape. Another birdbath, this one apparently empty, juts out from the small hill atop which the house sits.
There's one more grave, you notice, all alone.
You realize what's off just before you step inside. It's quiet. It's still. Nothing's moving. It's like you're walking through a photograph.
The almost imperceptible squeaking of well-oiled wheels greets you as you walk through the entryway.
"I s'ppose the Doll's given you the rundown?" says an old man in a wheelchair. He's dressed like someone out of the 1800s who was on the wrong end of a tailoring accident, his gray hair sticking out of a rumpled top hat and a wan smile on his face. Even under his heavy jacket, you can see strength there, rusted away perhaps but still plain as day.
"As best she could. Not all tha' useful though, ta be honest. You Gehrman?" You've been thinking of it as a house this whole time but, looking around, it's not particularly houselike. The place is like a scatterbrained professor's office, full of books pottery and loose paper strewn haphazardly about the floor. Along one wall sits a massive chest, presumably for storage, and a little dresser with a variety of odd tools atop it. At the room's head stands what can only be called an altar, complete with ornate candles and what you hope for the old man's sake isn't a bloodsoaked rag.
"Aye, I am," he answers, leaning forward on his cane. "And you're the hunter, I presume. Bigger chap than most that pass through here. Has the Dream treated you well so far?"
You stare at him for a moment.
"Okay, I get that yer tryin' ta get me ta ask questions so you can go inta yer 'mysterious old man' routine, but I just finished havin' a fistfight with an immortal arsehole who ripped my fuckin' heart out. If ye've got somethin' to say, spill it."
He laughs at that, shaking his head.
"No appreciation for good storytelling. No respect," he laughs. "You didn't come to us from Yharnam. I can tell. Not sure how you got here, but I suppose it doesn't matter."
"The fuck's a Yharnam? The Doll over there mentioned it, too."
"Oh dear, you really are a long way from home, aren't you?" With that, he grins again.
You glare at him and pop a bayonet out of your sleeve.
"Fine, fine. Yharnam's a city; a fairly important one, all things considered. Most of the hunters that find their way here come from there, as you've probably gathered. I haven't been there myself in some time, so my knowledge isn't quite up-to-date, I'm sorry to say. I do hope the Church is treating the people well."
You perk up at that. Something familiar at last.
"Well, now! I'm somethin' of a churchgoin' man m'self. What sort is it? Catholic? Or maybe it's some nice Protestants I can have m'self a chat with?"
The old man cups his chin, 'hmmm'-ing audibly and looking off into the distance. "Can't say I'm familiar with those terms."
What.
"Y'know, Catholics and Protestants? One spreads the word o' Christ and the other gets stabbed in the fuckin' face fer bein' a buncha heathen pricks!"
Breathe, Anderson. There will be time for stabbing and people to stab later, hopefully. Gehrman politely waits for you to get your heart rate back in the double digits before answering.
"I don't believe Yharnam has a Christ, unfortunately. They worship the blood; at least, the people do."
BREATHE. Yes, they're a bunch of pagan sinners, but can you really call them heathens if they've never even heard the Good Word? Well, you can, of course, but should you?
Ponder existential crisis later. Get answers from old man now.
"So where's 'here,' exactly? Am I dreamin'? Are you? Are we all havin' some kinda freaky superdream?"
"Oh no, hunter, you misunderstand. Dreaming is just how you get here. This place is very real." He taps his cane twice upon the floor, as though convincing you of its solidity.
Huh. Not like that makes any sense, but you'll roll with it.
[] So, what now? How do I get out?
[] What do you mean, they worship blood?
[] So what's your role in all of this? How'd you get here?
[] Write in...
"Thank ye for the assistance, Lass. Sorry for gettin' worked up a bit." Mama Anderson didn't raise no ingrate.
The little vagina-men re-roll their scroll when they see you start to walk away, sinking back into the ground. One of them gives you a little thumb-up as he disappears from view. As you walk up the uneven steps, you take another look at your surroundings. Something about them is bothering you, aside from the obvious not-Heavenness of it all and the fact that the moon is fucking huge.
There's a stone birdbath nearby, filled with more of the little men. Most of them are just watching you go, although a couple are holding up bottles of an unidentifiable liquid and making motions you recognize from your time in bazaars abroad. Past them is a line of graves, each with roots in a cup-holder-esque shape. Another birdbath, this one apparently empty, juts out from the small hill atop which the house sits.
There's one more grave, you notice, all alone.
You realize what's off just before you step inside. It's quiet. It's still. Nothing's moving. It's like you're walking through a photograph.
The almost imperceptible squeaking of well-oiled wheels greets you as you walk through the entryway.
"I s'ppose the Doll's given you the rundown?" says an old man in a wheelchair. He's dressed like someone out of the 1800s who was on the wrong end of a tailoring accident, his gray hair sticking out of a rumpled top hat and a wan smile on his face. Even under his heavy jacket, you can see strength there, rusted away perhaps but still plain as day.
"As best she could. Not all tha' useful though, ta be honest. You Gehrman?" You've been thinking of it as a house this whole time but, looking around, it's not particularly houselike. The place is like a scatterbrained professor's office, full of books pottery and loose paper strewn haphazardly about the floor. Along one wall sits a massive chest, presumably for storage, and a little dresser with a variety of odd tools atop it. At the room's head stands what can only be called an altar, complete with ornate candles and what you hope for the old man's sake isn't a bloodsoaked rag.
"Aye, I am," he answers, leaning forward on his cane. "And you're the hunter, I presume. Bigger chap than most that pass through here. Has the Dream treated you well so far?"
You stare at him for a moment.
"Okay, I get that yer tryin' ta get me ta ask questions so you can go inta yer 'mysterious old man' routine, but I just finished havin' a fistfight with an immortal arsehole who ripped my fuckin' heart out. If ye've got somethin' to say, spill it."
He laughs at that, shaking his head.
"No appreciation for good storytelling. No respect," he laughs. "You didn't come to us from Yharnam. I can tell. Not sure how you got here, but I suppose it doesn't matter."
"The fuck's a Yharnam? The Doll over there mentioned it, too."
"Oh dear, you really are a long way from home, aren't you?" With that, he grins again.
You glare at him and pop a bayonet out of your sleeve.
"Fine, fine. Yharnam's a city; a fairly important one, all things considered. Most of the hunters that find their way here come from there, as you've probably gathered. I haven't been there myself in some time, so my knowledge isn't quite up-to-date, I'm sorry to say. I do hope the Church is treating the people well."
You perk up at that. Something familiar at last.
"Well, now! I'm somethin' of a churchgoin' man m'self. What sort is it? Catholic? Or maybe it's some nice Protestants I can have m'self a chat with?"
The old man cups his chin, 'hmmm'-ing audibly and looking off into the distance. "Can't say I'm familiar with those terms."
What.
"Y'know, Catholics and Protestants? One spreads the word o' Christ and the other gets stabbed in the fuckin' face fer bein' a buncha heathen pricks!"
Breathe, Anderson. There will be time for stabbing and people to stab later, hopefully. Gehrman politely waits for you to get your heart rate back in the double digits before answering.
"I don't believe Yharnam has a Christ, unfortunately. They worship the blood; at least, the people do."
BREATHE. Yes, they're a bunch of pagan sinners, but can you really call them heathens if they've never even heard the Good Word? Well, you can, of course, but should you?
Ponder existential crisis later. Get answers from old man now.
"So where's 'here,' exactly? Am I dreamin'? Are you? Are we all havin' some kinda freaky superdream?"
"Oh no, hunter, you misunderstand. Dreaming is just how you get here. This place is very real." He taps his cane twice upon the floor, as though convincing you of its solidity.
Huh. Not like that makes any sense, but you'll roll with it.
[] So, what now? How do I get out?
[] What do you mean, they worship blood?
[] So what's your role in all of this? How'd you get here?
[] Write in...
Up to Speed
You've still got plenty of questions (seriously, what is up with the little vagina dudes), but there's one sticking in your mind.
"What d'ye mean, they worship blood? Is it specific blood or blood in general?" You wonder if a big fat bloke with a shitload of blood would be holier than a skinny guy under this system.
"Yharnamites have a rather interesting relationship with blood. It's everything to them; medicine, a drug, a way of life. The church built Yharnam and blood built the Church. I'm given to understand they don't even drink alcohol because the blood's more intoxicating."
You've had blood in your mouth. It just tasted like pennies and made smiling really awkward for a while. You're fairly certain you can't get hammered on it.
Unless...
"They wouldn't happen to bite each other in the neck and drink it from there, would they?"
Gehrman looks at you with the kind of expression that suggests he's been alive for a long, long time and never heard something that stupid.
"No, no. The Church trades in blood ministration. They turn it into something miraculous."
"And how do they do that?"
He opens his mouth to answer, only to seemingly change his mind in an instant. Instead, he shakes his head.
"The Church holds their secrets very close. You'd have to go to the Grand Cathedral and...encourage one of them to give you a straight answer."
You are good at encouraging people, you must admit.
"Of course, they should have their hands full at the moment, it being the night of the Hunt," he continues. Before you have a chance to call him out for lobbing you another thing to ask about, he holds up a finger and begins wheeling himself towards the dresser with all the odd tools. Once there, he reaches up to pull down one of the massive blades hanging from the wall above it.
"Yharnam is overrun with beasts. The first Yharnam had the same issue. You'd think they'd have learned by now, eh?" He appraises the blade, serrated and vicious, with a wistful look in his eyes. "And so we have the hunters, cleaning up the streets on nights when men lose themselves to the Scourge."
Wait. These guys may not be vampires, but you may have yourself another familiar target.
"What, like werewolves?"
"A good many do turn into wolf-like creatures."
Crazy blood heathen werewolves? There's, like, zero moral ambiguity about aggressively shanking them. This might be Heaven after all.
"They don't turn into mist, do they? Because I met this one cunt that could do that and it was a pain in the arse. Y'ever tried to stab mist to death? Can't be done."
"Not to my knowledge."
Heaven it is. While the grin on your face grows to terrifying proportions, he replaces the blade and continues speaking before you can start cackling.
"The Dream is a sanctuary of sorts, somewhere the hunters can rest and restock their supplies. From here, you can wake up almost anywhere in the city, provided there's a lantern. And before you ask, you'll know a lantern when you see it. It's not what it used to be, but you're welcome to use whatever you find...even the Doll, should it please you."
"That's creepy. You're creepy."
He laughs at that.
"Just a bit of humor from an old man. You have to find the time to laugh, I've found; you go mad, otherwise." He turns his chair to face you and folds his arms across his lap. "So, now that you have something of a grasp of the current situation, what do you intend to do, hunter?"
[] Find out how you got here
[] Find a way out of here
[] Have a talk with the Church
[] Spread the Word. And by the Word you mean the Word and also stabbing
[] Write in...
"What d'ye mean, they worship blood? Is it specific blood or blood in general?" You wonder if a big fat bloke with a shitload of blood would be holier than a skinny guy under this system.
"Yharnamites have a rather interesting relationship with blood. It's everything to them; medicine, a drug, a way of life. The church built Yharnam and blood built the Church. I'm given to understand they don't even drink alcohol because the blood's more intoxicating."
You've had blood in your mouth. It just tasted like pennies and made smiling really awkward for a while. You're fairly certain you can't get hammered on it.
Unless...
"They wouldn't happen to bite each other in the neck and drink it from there, would they?"
Gehrman looks at you with the kind of expression that suggests he's been alive for a long, long time and never heard something that stupid.
"No, no. The Church trades in blood ministration. They turn it into something miraculous."
"And how do they do that?"
He opens his mouth to answer, only to seemingly change his mind in an instant. Instead, he shakes his head.
"The Church holds their secrets very close. You'd have to go to the Grand Cathedral and...encourage one of them to give you a straight answer."
You are good at encouraging people, you must admit.
"Of course, they should have their hands full at the moment, it being the night of the Hunt," he continues. Before you have a chance to call him out for lobbing you another thing to ask about, he holds up a finger and begins wheeling himself towards the dresser with all the odd tools. Once there, he reaches up to pull down one of the massive blades hanging from the wall above it.
"Yharnam is overrun with beasts. The first Yharnam had the same issue. You'd think they'd have learned by now, eh?" He appraises the blade, serrated and vicious, with a wistful look in his eyes. "And so we have the hunters, cleaning up the streets on nights when men lose themselves to the Scourge."
Wait. These guys may not be vampires, but you may have yourself another familiar target.
"What, like werewolves?"
"A good many do turn into wolf-like creatures."
Crazy blood heathen werewolves? There's, like, zero moral ambiguity about aggressively shanking them. This might be Heaven after all.
"They don't turn into mist, do they? Because I met this one cunt that could do that and it was a pain in the arse. Y'ever tried to stab mist to death? Can't be done."
"Not to my knowledge."
Heaven it is. While the grin on your face grows to terrifying proportions, he replaces the blade and continues speaking before you can start cackling.
"The Dream is a sanctuary of sorts, somewhere the hunters can rest and restock their supplies. From here, you can wake up almost anywhere in the city, provided there's a lantern. And before you ask, you'll know a lantern when you see it. It's not what it used to be, but you're welcome to use whatever you find...even the Doll, should it please you."
"That's creepy. You're creepy."
He laughs at that.
"Just a bit of humor from an old man. You have to find the time to laugh, I've found; you go mad, otherwise." He turns his chair to face you and folds his arms across his lap. "So, now that you have something of a grasp of the current situation, what do you intend to do, hunter?"
[] Find out how you got here
[] Find a way out of here
[] Have a talk with the Church
[] Spread the Word. And by the Word you mean the Word and also stabbing
[] Write in...
Last edited:
Prologue END: 1st Floor Sickroom
You pull out a pair of bayonets, twirling them in your hands as you answer.
"Me? I'm thinkin' o' doin' myself some missionary work. Spreadin' the Good Word among the fine citizens o' Yharnam." You can't keep the grin off of your face; it's time for some good old-fashioned peacekeeping.
Wait, fuck that. Maxwell's off getting shat out by zombies. It's time for a good old-fashioned Crusade.
You continue spinning the bayonets and laughing as Gehrman watches bemusedly. Just as you're about to turn away so your coat flutters up all badass-like, though, you realize you're missing an important detail.
"So...how exactly do I get there?" you ask, sheepishly putting your bayonets away. Gehrman points towards the doorway you entered through with a grin.
"The graves by the Doll. Use the one with all the Messengers around it. The little ones."
"Much obliged."
You walk back through the doorway as Gehrman begins organizing the dresser, rearranging a few vials and bells. Outside the Workshop, several more Messengers (that's a way better name than vagina-men) have popped out of the ground. One group offers you a pair of archaic-looking firearms, while the rest hoist a series of brutal-looking melee weapons. You're actually rather impressed with the little guys' upper-body strength, especially when one of them demonstrates the axe's effectiveness by braining one of its mates with the flat of the blade.
You politely decline, popping out a pair of bayonets. "I appreciate the offer, wee lads, but I think I'm good for weapons." They nod in understanding, sinking into the steps. The one who got beaned takes a little longer to join the others and, as you watch it recompose itself, an idea strikes you.
"Hold on a sec." You walk over to the Messenger and pull a small cross from the endless recesses of your coat. Crouching down, you offer it to the strange little man, who takes it from you and looks to you for clarification. "If y'see someone who looks like they need a friend, give 'em this." It salutes you smartly before disappearing from sight.
The Doll is sitting demurely beside the steps when you reach her, humming softly to herself. At your approach, she rises once more and bows to you.
"Farewell, good hunter. May you find your worth in the waking world."
You know your worth. It's the rest of the world that's in the dark. You'll fix that soon enough.
The bottom-most grave is filled with Messengers, swaying with no real rhyme or reason. You lean down and tentatively reach your hand towards them. For a moment, nothing happens; you're about to ask the Doll for directions when the world falls out from under you.
You're surrounded by darkness, standing on nothing. In the near distance, a pale light sits slightly above the ground and, as you walk towards it, you see the skeletons of many more lanterns like it at the edge of its illumination.
He did say you'd know them when you see them.
As you kneel to examine the sole living light, an image forms in your mind of what looks like a primitive hospital, full of scattered implements and beds with the sorts of restraints you'd expect at a polar bear sanctuary. It's not terribly inviting, but it's not like you have too many options. You touch the light and the world fades away.
The smell hits you first, copper and formaldehyde and the faintest hint of alcohol struggling to keep the place sterile in the face of overwhelming adversity. The wooden floor creaks, both under you and under something stumbling about somewhere nearby. You rise to your feet, take a deep breath, and flourish your weapons of choice.
"Then you call on the name of your god, and I will call on the name of the LORD. The god who answers by fire-he is God."
"AMEN!"
[] Find your way to the exit
[] Explore the clinic
[] Write in...
Yeah, I know that giving the Messenger a cross only got one vote but it was too cute for me not to include.
"Me? I'm thinkin' o' doin' myself some missionary work. Spreadin' the Good Word among the fine citizens o' Yharnam." You can't keep the grin off of your face; it's time for some good old-fashioned peacekeeping.
Wait, fuck that. Maxwell's off getting shat out by zombies. It's time for a good old-fashioned Crusade.
You continue spinning the bayonets and laughing as Gehrman watches bemusedly. Just as you're about to turn away so your coat flutters up all badass-like, though, you realize you're missing an important detail.
"So...how exactly do I get there?" you ask, sheepishly putting your bayonets away. Gehrman points towards the doorway you entered through with a grin.
"The graves by the Doll. Use the one with all the Messengers around it. The little ones."
"Much obliged."
You walk back through the doorway as Gehrman begins organizing the dresser, rearranging a few vials and bells. Outside the Workshop, several more Messengers (that's a way better name than vagina-men) have popped out of the ground. One group offers you a pair of archaic-looking firearms, while the rest hoist a series of brutal-looking melee weapons. You're actually rather impressed with the little guys' upper-body strength, especially when one of them demonstrates the axe's effectiveness by braining one of its mates with the flat of the blade.
You politely decline, popping out a pair of bayonets. "I appreciate the offer, wee lads, but I think I'm good for weapons." They nod in understanding, sinking into the steps. The one who got beaned takes a little longer to join the others and, as you watch it recompose itself, an idea strikes you.
"Hold on a sec." You walk over to the Messenger and pull a small cross from the endless recesses of your coat. Crouching down, you offer it to the strange little man, who takes it from you and looks to you for clarification. "If y'see someone who looks like they need a friend, give 'em this." It salutes you smartly before disappearing from sight.
The Doll is sitting demurely beside the steps when you reach her, humming softly to herself. At your approach, she rises once more and bows to you.
"Farewell, good hunter. May you find your worth in the waking world."
You know your worth. It's the rest of the world that's in the dark. You'll fix that soon enough.
The bottom-most grave is filled with Messengers, swaying with no real rhyme or reason. You lean down and tentatively reach your hand towards them. For a moment, nothing happens; you're about to ask the Doll for directions when the world falls out from under you.
You're surrounded by darkness, standing on nothing. In the near distance, a pale light sits slightly above the ground and, as you walk towards it, you see the skeletons of many more lanterns like it at the edge of its illumination.
He did say you'd know them when you see them.
As you kneel to examine the sole living light, an image forms in your mind of what looks like a primitive hospital, full of scattered implements and beds with the sorts of restraints you'd expect at a polar bear sanctuary. It's not terribly inviting, but it's not like you have too many options. You touch the light and the world fades away.
The smell hits you first, copper and formaldehyde and the faintest hint of alcohol struggling to keep the place sterile in the face of overwhelming adversity. The wooden floor creaks, both under you and under something stumbling about somewhere nearby. You rise to your feet, take a deep breath, and flourish your weapons of choice.
"Then you call on the name of your god, and I will call on the name of the LORD. The god who answers by fire-he is God."
"AMEN!"
[] Find your way to the exit
[] Explore the clinic
[] Write in...
Yeah, I know that giving the Messenger a cross only got one vote but it was too cute for me not to include.
Last edited:
First Blood
You hold your pose for a little while longer than you probably should, imagining how awesome it would have been if there had been somebody to see it. Oh, well.
Healing the sick may not be the most fun part of the Church's mission, but it's an important one nonetheless. It'd probably be wise of you to see if you can use the place to help any potential converts.
First things first, though, whatever the hell is making all that racket is about to be served a very enthusiastic noise complaint.
You walk carefully through the nearby footsteps, working to time your footsteps with the erratic clatters and labored snarling. It's not long before you see the culprit.
It's got the fur and facial structure of a wolf, but everything else is blatantly wrong. Its limbs are grotesquely long, just human enough to hit the deepest recesses of the Uncanny Valley. Worse, its hind legs are splayed out rather than directly beneath it, giving it a gait more reminiscent of a crocodile than any mammal. It's munching on what was a man not too long ago, whose inability to escape the beast seems to be explained by the nearby wheelchair.
Sucked to be him.
You notice that the wheelchair man appears to have put up a good fight, judging by the gashes slowly leaking along the beasts's arms and chest. You almost feel bad about what you're going to do; it doesn't seem very sportsmanlike. Ah, well. Everyone has to make sacrifices.
"Oy, ye furry bastard. How's about givin' ol' Father Anderson a proper welcome?"
It spins to face you before the second word is out of your mouth, visibly wincing as it does so. As if to draw attention away from its sign of weakness, it bellows out a challenge and digs its gnarled claws deep into the wooden floor. It charges after you with jaws wide, loping furiously across the room. Faintly crimson spittle trails from its mouth as it leaps.
Before it hits the floor, you've put a bayonet through each side of its neck. It crashes to the ground in an ungainly heap. You pull its head up towards you with the bayonets, somewhat impressed as it continues to growl its defiance. Looking into its eyes, you rear back and surge forward with a vicious headbutt.
Its strength leaves on impact as its thick forehead fails it. You remove your bayonets and re-inter them in the bottomless recesses of your sleeves; you could just use the others, you know, but these got you your first kill in this world and you figure they deserve to be used a bit more. It's a shame you couldn't fight the beast its best, but if all the rest have the balls this one did, you're in for a fun night.
You can see what appears to be the exit nearby, but there's more of the clinic to explore before you make your debut on the big stage. You're about to head upstairs when you realize it's probably not very sanitary to have these bodies right next to hospital beds. You spend a few seconds trying to nudge them away with your foot before giving up and punting them into the far wall.
With a spring in your step, you walk up the wooden stairway. The second-floor doors are surprisingly unlocked, which rather disappoints you as you were kind of hoping to kick them open. There doesn't seem to be anything of real interest here, just some more beds, equipment, and some musty medical texts on shelves along the walls. A note on a chair does catch your eye, however, and you walk over to take a closer look.
"Seek Paleblood to transcend the hunt."
Well, you have no idea what the shit Paleblood is, but if all goes to plan, you're sure you'll spill enough blood that some of it should be Paleblood.
Replacing the note, you continue your trek up the stairs. At the top, you find a pair of doors, these ones locked. You're in the midst of winding up your breachin' leg when a frightened-sounding voice reaches you though the wood.
"Hello? Are you a hunter?"
[] Write in...
Healing the sick may not be the most fun part of the Church's mission, but it's an important one nonetheless. It'd probably be wise of you to see if you can use the place to help any potential converts.
First things first, though, whatever the hell is making all that racket is about to be served a very enthusiastic noise complaint.
You walk carefully through the nearby footsteps, working to time your footsteps with the erratic clatters and labored snarling. It's not long before you see the culprit.
It's got the fur and facial structure of a wolf, but everything else is blatantly wrong. Its limbs are grotesquely long, just human enough to hit the deepest recesses of the Uncanny Valley. Worse, its hind legs are splayed out rather than directly beneath it, giving it a gait more reminiscent of a crocodile than any mammal. It's munching on what was a man not too long ago, whose inability to escape the beast seems to be explained by the nearby wheelchair.
Sucked to be him.
You notice that the wheelchair man appears to have put up a good fight, judging by the gashes slowly leaking along the beasts's arms and chest. You almost feel bad about what you're going to do; it doesn't seem very sportsmanlike. Ah, well. Everyone has to make sacrifices.
"Oy, ye furry bastard. How's about givin' ol' Father Anderson a proper welcome?"
It spins to face you before the second word is out of your mouth, visibly wincing as it does so. As if to draw attention away from its sign of weakness, it bellows out a challenge and digs its gnarled claws deep into the wooden floor. It charges after you with jaws wide, loping furiously across the room. Faintly crimson spittle trails from its mouth as it leaps.
Before it hits the floor, you've put a bayonet through each side of its neck. It crashes to the ground in an ungainly heap. You pull its head up towards you with the bayonets, somewhat impressed as it continues to growl its defiance. Looking into its eyes, you rear back and surge forward with a vicious headbutt.
Its strength leaves on impact as its thick forehead fails it. You remove your bayonets and re-inter them in the bottomless recesses of your sleeves; you could just use the others, you know, but these got you your first kill in this world and you figure they deserve to be used a bit more. It's a shame you couldn't fight the beast its best, but if all the rest have the balls this one did, you're in for a fun night.
You can see what appears to be the exit nearby, but there's more of the clinic to explore before you make your debut on the big stage. You're about to head upstairs when you realize it's probably not very sanitary to have these bodies right next to hospital beds. You spend a few seconds trying to nudge them away with your foot before giving up and punting them into the far wall.
With a spring in your step, you walk up the wooden stairway. The second-floor doors are surprisingly unlocked, which rather disappoints you as you were kind of hoping to kick them open. There doesn't seem to be anything of real interest here, just some more beds, equipment, and some musty medical texts on shelves along the walls. A note on a chair does catch your eye, however, and you walk over to take a closer look.
"Seek Paleblood to transcend the hunt."
Well, you have no idea what the shit Paleblood is, but if all goes to plan, you're sure you'll spill enough blood that some of it should be Paleblood.
Replacing the note, you continue your trek up the stairs. At the top, you find a pair of doors, these ones locked. You're in the midst of winding up your breachin' leg when a frightened-sounding voice reaches you though the wood.
"Hello? Are you a hunter?"
[] Write in...
Last edited:
Hello, Nurse
"Of a sort," you answer. "Father Anderson, a simple man of God, tending to His lost sheep." You jerk a thumb backwards before remembering that she can't see you. "I took care o' yer werewolf problem, by the way."
"Were...there was a beast in the clinic?" she replies in a panicked tone.
"What the hell didja think was makin' all that noise?"
"I'd-I'd hoped it was members of the Hunt looking for the creatures. I won't be able to use the clinic anymore; the Church will burn it to prevent infection. I moved everything important up here before the Hunt began but will they burn that too? Where will I put patients?"
"Relax, lass. Deep breaths. Anyone wants to burn down a place o' healin' is gonna haveta go through me."
You give her a minute to compose herself. Having one's place of sanctuary proven vulnerable is never easy. After a brief while, she speaks again in a measured tone.
"I am Iosefka; I run this clinic for those unable to reach or afford the official aid of the Church. You said you were a 'Father;' would you happen to know Gascoigne? I've treated him and his daughters before. He tells me he doesn't trust the Church's ministers."
You rack your brain on the off-chance that some other poor bastard from the Vatican somehow wound up here, but no dice. You tell her as much.
"Oh. Well, I can't expect everyone who's called 'Father' to know one another. It was silly of me to ask."
The silence hangs in the air for a moment, interrupted occasionally by the buzz of insects drawn towards the corpses below.
"Um, if you don't mind me asking, what is your God like? The Church speaks of gods sometimes, saying they granted us the good blood, but they never explain who they are."
This catches you by surprise in a rather pleasant way. It's been ages since you've had someone willing to lend an ear that you hadn't already ripped off.
"God's God, Doctor. All-knowing, all-loving. He created us in His image and through us He makes the world a better place. We spread His Word that the masses may join us in His arms when we leave this sinful world. The young, the old, the sick, all who embrace Him are equal in His eyes."
You'd get into the fun bits with the fire and the brimstone and the righteous smiting but you figure the lady wouldn't be too receptive to that in her current situation.
"Your God sounds like a very fine God, Father Anderson," she says after a moment.
"I wouldn't be fightin' in His name otherwise."
[] Ask for more information about the city and the Church
[] Ask if there's anything you can do to help here
[] Ask her if she knows anything about the Dream
[] Write in...
"Were...there was a beast in the clinic?" she replies in a panicked tone.
"What the hell didja think was makin' all that noise?"
"I'd-I'd hoped it was members of the Hunt looking for the creatures. I won't be able to use the clinic anymore; the Church will burn it to prevent infection. I moved everything important up here before the Hunt began but will they burn that too? Where will I put patients?"
"Relax, lass. Deep breaths. Anyone wants to burn down a place o' healin' is gonna haveta go through me."
You give her a minute to compose herself. Having one's place of sanctuary proven vulnerable is never easy. After a brief while, she speaks again in a measured tone.
"I am Iosefka; I run this clinic for those unable to reach or afford the official aid of the Church. You said you were a 'Father;' would you happen to know Gascoigne? I've treated him and his daughters before. He tells me he doesn't trust the Church's ministers."
You rack your brain on the off-chance that some other poor bastard from the Vatican somehow wound up here, but no dice. You tell her as much.
"Oh. Well, I can't expect everyone who's called 'Father' to know one another. It was silly of me to ask."
The silence hangs in the air for a moment, interrupted occasionally by the buzz of insects drawn towards the corpses below.
"Um, if you don't mind me asking, what is your God like? The Church speaks of gods sometimes, saying they granted us the good blood, but they never explain who they are."
This catches you by surprise in a rather pleasant way. It's been ages since you've had someone willing to lend an ear that you hadn't already ripped off.
"God's God, Doctor. All-knowing, all-loving. He created us in His image and through us He makes the world a better place. We spread His Word that the masses may join us in His arms when we leave this sinful world. The young, the old, the sick, all who embrace Him are equal in His eyes."
You'd get into the fun bits with the fire and the brimstone and the righteous smiting but you figure the lady wouldn't be too receptive to that in her current situation.
"Your God sounds like a very fine God, Father Anderson," she says after a moment.
"I wouldn't be fightin' in His name otherwise."
[] Ask for more information about the city and the Church
[] Ask if there's anything you can do to help here
[] Ask her if she knows anything about the Dream
[] Write in...
Doctor, Doctor
"So," you say after a moment, "everythin' under control here? Anythin' I can do to help out?"
"Thank you for the offer, Father. My supplies are in fairly good shape, but if you find some extra Blood Vials on your journey, I would certainly appreciate them. Also, when you leave, would you mind checking the incense outside? If it's gone out, there's some extra on the shelves downstairs. The smell keeps the beasts away. Or at least it should."
She doesn't sound terribly confident of that, and for good reason. Speaking of...
"What about the beastie? Any way t'deal with it that doesn't involve burning the whole place down?"
"Oh, I don't expect it to be too much of an issue. I have some cleaning solutions in here to take care of the blood; the Church tends to take rather dramatic measures, but they shouldn't be necessary for a single beast. If you wouldn't mind taking the body outside, though, I would appreciate it. Did it happen to...kill anyone before you slew it, Father?"
"It was eatin' some chap in a wheelchair when I found it."
"That would be the blood minister the Church insisted on sending to 'oversee' my work. I warned them about the stairs, but they wouldn't listen."
Not big on ramps, these Yharnamites.
She seems to have things under control after that scare; you figure this isn't her first...does "rodeo" work as an idiom here? You can't really think of a better one at the moment but you don't want to think like some American hick.
"You sure you're safe in here, though? That thing did manage to get in, y'know."
"I am well-prepared, Father. This door is extremely thick and barred on this side. I have also worked to increase the potency of the incense; I can only imagine my lantern got damaged somehow, otherwise the beast would have given it a wide berth. The clinic ought to be more than safe."
Well, if she's sure.
Something occurs to you before you turn to leave.
"Before I go, Doctor, would ye mind openin' the door a wee bit? Can't say we've been properly introduced if we don't even know what the other one looks like."
You hear her fiddle with the lock for a moment, hesitating, before finally opening the door and peering out from the crack. She's quite lovely, gray hair done up in a bun and tired-looking eyes widening at your size. You hold up your hands.
"Not gonna hurtcha, lass."
Still watching you, she opens it further, revealing her surprisingly-clean white coat and gloves. You can see the clutter of hastily-moved supplies behind her as she appraises you.
She bows in greeting and you do the same before reaching into your coat and producing a Bible and cross, which you offer to her. She accepts them with some confusion.
"The Word and the cross where our LORD's son died for our sins. They've carried me through the worst of times and I hope they can do the same for you."
"Thank you," she says with a smile. She puts them down for a moment and reaches into her own coat, retrieving a bottle of what looks almost like cider. She hands it to you carefully.
"This is a blood vial I've designed; if you're injured, it should be able to heal you much more efficiently than a standard vial. I'm sorry this is all I can offer."
"No need for apologies. Thank ye, Doctor Iosefka." You smile and pocket the vial before turning to leave, waving as she closes the door once more.
Damn, that thing really is thick. Even you'd have trouble cracking it with just your hands.
You make your way to the entrance, picking up the helpfully-labeled container of incense along the way. With it in one hand and the corpse of the werewolf in the other, you step into the Yharnam afternoon for the first time. And then you remember that you forgot the minister and go get his corpse, too. Wouldn't want to make Iosefka's cleaning any harder than it already is.
With the bodies disposed of (hurled a reasonable distance from the front door towards a tree), you take a look at the incense lantern, which had indeed fallen to the cobblestones below. It looks like it's just bent, certainly not beyond repair. You straighten it as best you can before inserting a fresh batch of incense and, with some sparks from your bayonets, lighting it.
It is, indeed, terribly pungent. The idea of cutting off your own nose comes to mind before you realize it would just grow back.
The area near the entrance is populated by cobblestone, trees, and graves, the latter of which gives you some questions about the efficacy of Yharnam's medical technology. There's a corpse sitting by the grave nearest the gate; either somebody didn't know you were supposed to bury them or the situation in the city is as bad as you'd expected.
Time to hit the town.
[] Advance carefully, avoiding conflict where you can
[] See if you can't communicate with any of the people you meet on the street
[]
"Thank you for the offer, Father. My supplies are in fairly good shape, but if you find some extra Blood Vials on your journey, I would certainly appreciate them. Also, when you leave, would you mind checking the incense outside? If it's gone out, there's some extra on the shelves downstairs. The smell keeps the beasts away. Or at least it should."
She doesn't sound terribly confident of that, and for good reason. Speaking of...
"What about the beastie? Any way t'deal with it that doesn't involve burning the whole place down?"
"Oh, I don't expect it to be too much of an issue. I have some cleaning solutions in here to take care of the blood; the Church tends to take rather dramatic measures, but they shouldn't be necessary for a single beast. If you wouldn't mind taking the body outside, though, I would appreciate it. Did it happen to...kill anyone before you slew it, Father?"
"It was eatin' some chap in a wheelchair when I found it."
"That would be the blood minister the Church insisted on sending to 'oversee' my work. I warned them about the stairs, but they wouldn't listen."
Not big on ramps, these Yharnamites.
She seems to have things under control after that scare; you figure this isn't her first...does "rodeo" work as an idiom here? You can't really think of a better one at the moment but you don't want to think like some American hick.
"You sure you're safe in here, though? That thing did manage to get in, y'know."
"I am well-prepared, Father. This door is extremely thick and barred on this side. I have also worked to increase the potency of the incense; I can only imagine my lantern got damaged somehow, otherwise the beast would have given it a wide berth. The clinic ought to be more than safe."
Well, if she's sure.
Something occurs to you before you turn to leave.
"Before I go, Doctor, would ye mind openin' the door a wee bit? Can't say we've been properly introduced if we don't even know what the other one looks like."
You hear her fiddle with the lock for a moment, hesitating, before finally opening the door and peering out from the crack. She's quite lovely, gray hair done up in a bun and tired-looking eyes widening at your size. You hold up your hands.
"Not gonna hurtcha, lass."
Still watching you, she opens it further, revealing her surprisingly-clean white coat and gloves. You can see the clutter of hastily-moved supplies behind her as she appraises you.
She bows in greeting and you do the same before reaching into your coat and producing a Bible and cross, which you offer to her. She accepts them with some confusion.
"The Word and the cross where our LORD's son died for our sins. They've carried me through the worst of times and I hope they can do the same for you."
"Thank you," she says with a smile. She puts them down for a moment and reaches into her own coat, retrieving a bottle of what looks almost like cider. She hands it to you carefully.
"This is a blood vial I've designed; if you're injured, it should be able to heal you much more efficiently than a standard vial. I'm sorry this is all I can offer."
"No need for apologies. Thank ye, Doctor Iosefka." You smile and pocket the vial before turning to leave, waving as she closes the door once more.
Damn, that thing really is thick. Even you'd have trouble cracking it with just your hands.
You make your way to the entrance, picking up the helpfully-labeled container of incense along the way. With it in one hand and the corpse of the werewolf in the other, you step into the Yharnam afternoon for the first time. And then you remember that you forgot the minister and go get his corpse, too. Wouldn't want to make Iosefka's cleaning any harder than it already is.
With the bodies disposed of (hurled a reasonable distance from the front door towards a tree), you take a look at the incense lantern, which had indeed fallen to the cobblestones below. It looks like it's just bent, certainly not beyond repair. You straighten it as best you can before inserting a fresh batch of incense and, with some sparks from your bayonets, lighting it.
It is, indeed, terribly pungent. The idea of cutting off your own nose comes to mind before you realize it would just grow back.
The area near the entrance is populated by cobblestone, trees, and graves, the latter of which gives you some questions about the efficacy of Yharnam's medical technology. There's a corpse sitting by the grave nearest the gate; either somebody didn't know you were supposed to bury them or the situation in the city is as bad as you'd expected.
Time to hit the town.
[] Advance carefully, avoiding conflict where you can
[] See if you can't communicate with any of the people you meet on the street
[]
Bodies, Floors, and the Hitting Thereof
As you reach the gate, a thought occurs to you. It's not that you don't trust Iosefka, it's that you don't trust everything else.
Can't hurt to be safe.
Pages flutter from your Bible in a miniature storm. You cast your hand forward and nails drive them into the stout walls of the clinic. You will the Word to deny entry to all those that would do harm to the building or its inhabitants. You considered making the cross a key to get in or out, but the idea of some poor sod looking for healing accidentally getting a faceful of holy vengeance isn't very Christianlike.
With that taken care of, you force the protesting gate open and step onto the cracking cobbles of Yharnam, being sure to shut it behind you. The sun seems to be on the way down, but there's still enough light for you to take in the impressive Gothic sprawl. A carriage rusts nearby, its horse long since rotted and pooling. It strikes you rather unsanitary, considering it's right outside a medical clinic.
Another carriage sits atop a nearby slope alongside another large gate. You can hear scraping in that direction and the telltale whisps of a torch being held aloft. You adjust your collar and step forward confidently; you only get one chance at a first impression, after all.
You catch a glimpse of your first Yharnamite in his natural habitat when he comes around the carriage to investigate your footsteps. He's incredibly lanky and uncomfortably hairy, steadying the torch in his right hand and dragging along an enormous axe with his left. His clothing is as disheveled as his hair, overlong and with the telltale patchwork of someone without the budget for an extended wardrobe. Nice hat, though. You put on your best smile and offer a hand in greeting.
"Afternoon, my good man! Wouldja mind tellin' me how t'get ta the Grand Cathedral? I'm from out of town, y'see."
He stares at you as though you've grown an extra head, then moves to cut off the original to compensate. For all his size, though, it's obvious the axe is too heavy for him and you duck his labored swing with ease. On the way up, you drive a fist into his liver and watch him fall to his knees in agony, clutching his stomach and dry heaving.
"Well tha's not very neighbourly of ye."
He scrambles forward in an attempt to grab his fallen axe, an attempt that's abruptly curtailed by your driving a pair of bayonets into his back. Once he stops twitching, you pluck a pair of blood vials from his coat, remembering Iosefka's request.
As you finish looting (for a good cause), you hear some hurried footsteps approaching from behind, apparently drawn by the commotion. You round on them, yanking your bayonets out in a satisfying spray and kicking the body aside. These two aren't as big as the one you just put away, but are more obviously beastial, with furred faces and distended arms that reach down to their knees. They hold sickles in clawed hands, raising them quickly to eye level as though desperate to have anything at all between you and them.
Looks like this place is going for the classic Frankensteinian mob aesthetic. You can respect that.
"Don't suppose you lot'd be more amenable to a friendly chat?"
They don't even hesitate before charging you, calling you a "foul beast" and something else you don't quite catch because the guy saying it now has a bayonet where his larynx used to be.
"I'm not the bloody beast here, ye fuzzy bastards! Don't give me that I Am Legend bullshit!"
You hope he managed to hear you before his brain stopped working. You can't remember how long it takes the head to die once you've cut it off.
With a few more blood vials in tow, you turn to find...a lever. Just a big honking lever, here in the middle of the street. With a locked gate on one side and a dead end on the other, though, it doesn't seem like you have much choice but to give it a yank. It wouldn't be here if it didn't do something important, would it?
Your curiosity is rewarded when a ladder crashes to the ground beside you with a weighty thud. Making sure to fleece the other dead guy you find around the corner, you make the climb.
Only to find half a dozen of the bastards waiting for you at the top. That ladder was pretty loud, after all. It looks like they were poised to knock you off the ladder before seeing your size and wussing out.
They're an interesting motley, a couple with that big axe, one with a wooden plank hiding behind the others, and even one with an old-school pitchfork. You spread your arms, noting with amusement that both Plank and Pitchfork Guy back away, and begin your sermon.
"When I raise my flashing sword, and my hand takes hold on judgment, I will take vengeance upon mine enemies, and I will repay those who hate me."
In Yharnam, nobody knows you're quoting Boondock Saints.
Pitchfork Guy rushes you, only for you to grab the weapon's shaft and flip him over the edge with it. The rest realize that they've crowded themselves in too tightly right about the time you lay into them. They're in pieces before Pitchfork Guy hits the ground.
Plank Guy is the only one left, backing away from you on trembling legs. To his credit, he does manage to steel himself and try to bash you with it, but it doesn't do him terribly much good when you've shoved a bayonet through the plank, his arm, and his chest.
"Come on, ye heathen shits. Is that all ye've got?"
The pile of bodies' lack of movement suggests that is, in fact, all they've got.
Just beyond the carnage sits a lantern, identical to the one in the clinic. When you reach towards it, it bursts to life and an image of the Dream floats through your mind, much in the way the clinic did when you messed with the grave.
Convenient.
To your left you see a thick, sturdy metal gate, while the right path appears to lead you further into the city. An incense lantern burns on a barred window, lit from within.
[] Return to the Dream
[] Inspect the lit window
[] Make your way down the path on the right
[] Write in...
Can't hurt to be safe.
Pages flutter from your Bible in a miniature storm. You cast your hand forward and nails drive them into the stout walls of the clinic. You will the Word to deny entry to all those that would do harm to the building or its inhabitants. You considered making the cross a key to get in or out, but the idea of some poor sod looking for healing accidentally getting a faceful of holy vengeance isn't very Christianlike.
With that taken care of, you force the protesting gate open and step onto the cracking cobbles of Yharnam, being sure to shut it behind you. The sun seems to be on the way down, but there's still enough light for you to take in the impressive Gothic sprawl. A carriage rusts nearby, its horse long since rotted and pooling. It strikes you rather unsanitary, considering it's right outside a medical clinic.
Another carriage sits atop a nearby slope alongside another large gate. You can hear scraping in that direction and the telltale whisps of a torch being held aloft. You adjust your collar and step forward confidently; you only get one chance at a first impression, after all.
You catch a glimpse of your first Yharnamite in his natural habitat when he comes around the carriage to investigate your footsteps. He's incredibly lanky and uncomfortably hairy, steadying the torch in his right hand and dragging along an enormous axe with his left. His clothing is as disheveled as his hair, overlong and with the telltale patchwork of someone without the budget for an extended wardrobe. Nice hat, though. You put on your best smile and offer a hand in greeting.
"Afternoon, my good man! Wouldja mind tellin' me how t'get ta the Grand Cathedral? I'm from out of town, y'see."
He stares at you as though you've grown an extra head, then moves to cut off the original to compensate. For all his size, though, it's obvious the axe is too heavy for him and you duck his labored swing with ease. On the way up, you drive a fist into his liver and watch him fall to his knees in agony, clutching his stomach and dry heaving.
"Well tha's not very neighbourly of ye."
He scrambles forward in an attempt to grab his fallen axe, an attempt that's abruptly curtailed by your driving a pair of bayonets into his back. Once he stops twitching, you pluck a pair of blood vials from his coat, remembering Iosefka's request.
As you finish looting (for a good cause), you hear some hurried footsteps approaching from behind, apparently drawn by the commotion. You round on them, yanking your bayonets out in a satisfying spray and kicking the body aside. These two aren't as big as the one you just put away, but are more obviously beastial, with furred faces and distended arms that reach down to their knees. They hold sickles in clawed hands, raising them quickly to eye level as though desperate to have anything at all between you and them.
Looks like this place is going for the classic Frankensteinian mob aesthetic. You can respect that.
"Don't suppose you lot'd be more amenable to a friendly chat?"
They don't even hesitate before charging you, calling you a "foul beast" and something else you don't quite catch because the guy saying it now has a bayonet where his larynx used to be.
"I'm not the bloody beast here, ye fuzzy bastards! Don't give me that I Am Legend bullshit!"
You hope he managed to hear you before his brain stopped working. You can't remember how long it takes the head to die once you've cut it off.
With a few more blood vials in tow, you turn to find...a lever. Just a big honking lever, here in the middle of the street. With a locked gate on one side and a dead end on the other, though, it doesn't seem like you have much choice but to give it a yank. It wouldn't be here if it didn't do something important, would it?
Your curiosity is rewarded when a ladder crashes to the ground beside you with a weighty thud. Making sure to fleece the other dead guy you find around the corner, you make the climb.
Only to find half a dozen of the bastards waiting for you at the top. That ladder was pretty loud, after all. It looks like they were poised to knock you off the ladder before seeing your size and wussing out.
They're an interesting motley, a couple with that big axe, one with a wooden plank hiding behind the others, and even one with an old-school pitchfork. You spread your arms, noting with amusement that both Plank and Pitchfork Guy back away, and begin your sermon.
"When I raise my flashing sword, and my hand takes hold on judgment, I will take vengeance upon mine enemies, and I will repay those who hate me."
In Yharnam, nobody knows you're quoting Boondock Saints.
Pitchfork Guy rushes you, only for you to grab the weapon's shaft and flip him over the edge with it. The rest realize that they've crowded themselves in too tightly right about the time you lay into them. They're in pieces before Pitchfork Guy hits the ground.
Plank Guy is the only one left, backing away from you on trembling legs. To his credit, he does manage to steel himself and try to bash you with it, but it doesn't do him terribly much good when you've shoved a bayonet through the plank, his arm, and his chest.
"Come on, ye heathen shits. Is that all ye've got?"
The pile of bodies' lack of movement suggests that is, in fact, all they've got.
Just beyond the carnage sits a lantern, identical to the one in the clinic. When you reach towards it, it bursts to life and an image of the Dream floats through your mind, much in the way the clinic did when you messed with the grave.
Convenient.
To your left you see a thick, sturdy metal gate, while the right path appears to lead you further into the city. An incense lantern burns on a barred window, lit from within.
[] Return to the Dream
[] Inspect the lit window
[] Make your way down the path on the right
[] Write in...
Last edited:
What's Eating Gilbert's Lungs
You're itching to go deeper into the city and bring the good tidings of the Lord with you, but you're not about to ignore an innocent in need/potential convert. You rap smartly on the bars of the window and, soon, you can make out a vague shape approaching from within.
"Hello?" the shape coughs.
"Afternoon, my good man. I've just arrived in town and was lookin' ta get ta know the neighbourhood. I gotta say, the others haven't given me too warm a welcome."
There's a brief pause before he starts laughing, quickly trailing into the sort of wet, hacking cough that's filmmaker shorthand for "unspecified life-threatening disease."
"I'm sorry, I've just never heard someone that enthusiastic on the night of the Hunt," he says, working to stabilize his breathing. "You really are from out of town."
He gives out one last wheeze before clearing his throat. He sounds European, although you can't precisely place his accent.
"I'm Gilbert, an outsider as well. You've certainly picked an interesting night to come to Yharnam, mister...?"
"Anderson. Father Alexander Anderson."
"Well, Father Anderson, I welcome you to our fine city. Judging by the racket outside, I trust you've already met some of its fine citizens."
"That, I have. Speakin' of, you alright in there? These guys out here are fuckin' nuts and ye sound awful."
He laughs again, softly this time so as not to aggravate his condition.
"Father, I haven't been alright in a long time. The blood bought me time, but even it couldn't fix me."
The jovial air evaporates.
"There's a clinic nearby. I can take you there," you offer.
"No need," he wheezes. "I've accepted my fate. Better than dying out there as a beast."
You're not big on going gently into that good night, but he seems fairly set on this.
"By the way, you said you were a Father. Would you happen to know Gascoigne? Knew him back in the old city. Real big chap, likes to wear a scarf and a hat. Might have a goatee; I think it looks shit on him but his wife likes it."
"You're the second person to ask me that, actually. Never laid eyes on the man."
"Well, if you do see him, give him my best, would you?"
[] Keep talking to GIlbert
-[] About...
[] Take the right-hand path down towards Yharnam
[] Examine the gate
[] Write in...
"Hello?" the shape coughs.
"Afternoon, my good man. I've just arrived in town and was lookin' ta get ta know the neighbourhood. I gotta say, the others haven't given me too warm a welcome."
There's a brief pause before he starts laughing, quickly trailing into the sort of wet, hacking cough that's filmmaker shorthand for "unspecified life-threatening disease."
"I'm sorry, I've just never heard someone that enthusiastic on the night of the Hunt," he says, working to stabilize his breathing. "You really are from out of town."
He gives out one last wheeze before clearing his throat. He sounds European, although you can't precisely place his accent.
"I'm Gilbert, an outsider as well. You've certainly picked an interesting night to come to Yharnam, mister...?"
"Anderson. Father Alexander Anderson."
"Well, Father Anderson, I welcome you to our fine city. Judging by the racket outside, I trust you've already met some of its fine citizens."
"That, I have. Speakin' of, you alright in there? These guys out here are fuckin' nuts and ye sound awful."
He laughs again, softly this time so as not to aggravate his condition.
"Father, I haven't been alright in a long time. The blood bought me time, but even it couldn't fix me."
The jovial air evaporates.
"There's a clinic nearby. I can take you there," you offer.
"No need," he wheezes. "I've accepted my fate. Better than dying out there as a beast."
You're not big on going gently into that good night, but he seems fairly set on this.
"By the way, you said you were a Father. Would you happen to know Gascoigne? Knew him back in the old city. Real big chap, likes to wear a scarf and a hat. Might have a goatee; I think it looks shit on him but his wife likes it."
"You're the second person to ask me that, actually. Never laid eyes on the man."
"Well, if you do see him, give him my best, would you?"
[] Keep talking to GIlbert
-[] About...
[] Take the right-hand path down towards Yharnam
[] Examine the gate
[] Write in...