Anderson Quest: Killing Vampires and Werewolves and Leprechauns (Hellsing/Bloodborne)

[Tricia]

You grin, relishing the idea of a proper one-on-one. "Ye know what? I'm okay with this. Out front, laughin' boy; if we had a proper barney in here the roof'd collapse. Wouldn't want ta hurt the doggie, would ye?"

The man shrugs. "Die in here, die out there, same difference."

"Right, that's the spirit. Mind if my friends move the rabble? Todd over there needs some new trousers and I think that one lady passed out from the excitement."

"Probably fear, actually," Steffon helpfully clarifies.

Again, the man shrugs. You nod to the Powder Kegs, who merely stare at you until you clarify what the nod means.

"Get 'em out o' here. I've got this."

"Improvising again?" Djura asks.

"Somethin' like that. He gets past me, he's all yours. Until then, I'm gonna be a wee bit selfish."

"Your funeral."

"Hey, I didn't even get one last time."

"What?"

"Just go. Meet up with Eileen and start plannin' my victory party."

Luckily, Djura has been exposed to you long enough to simply nod and wave the others forward. The man steps aside and they hurriedly scurry through the door, which he helpfully unlocks for them. Once the last of them is gone, he waves you forward and walks out the door.

You follow him down the long steps in silence. The carnage is completely absurd; gore and splintering craters paint a macabre mural, making the plaza look like a meat locker that got hit by an artillery barrage. You don't think they even make squeegees big enough to deal with this. At least the cleanup can be a fun community service project for the churchmen.

You almost feel bad about having to add one more body to their workload. Almost.

The man, whom you will think of as "Arseface" in lieu of a proper title, walks to the center of the plaza and turns to face you. When you reach the bottom of the steps, he rests the blade on his shoulder once more. He's waiting for you to engage.

And you are more than happy to oblige.

You fill your hands and send your blessed blades roaring towards him, trailing a turbulent wake of displaced dust. He didn't move before you finished throwing; he didn't see them coming at all. He won't have time to dodge.

He shifts his foot and he's gone.

You look around in a mild panic as your barrage shoots harmlessly through where he, by all rights, should still be. The shine of moonlight on a polished mask alerts you just in time to step back before his katana buries itself halfway into the cobbles. You manage to fill your hands, only for his next swing to tear through both bayonets and a good portion of your upper chest with absolute ease.

He cuts off an attempt to circle out with a vicious swing and forces you onto your back foot immediately. His assault pushes your reflexes to their absolute limit, and even when you manage to draw the club, you have to settle for just intercepting potentially-lethal hits. The flesh wounds begin to pile up as steel and alien carapace clash.

It's no wonder they're so afraid of this guy; his speed's off the charts. Yumie isn't this fast. Eileen isn't this fast. Not only that, he's strong enough to push your weapon back despite its great bulk. Any normal person, any normal Hunter even, would likely go down to his first strike.

But normal people don't get up from two knockdowns to KO the Jersey Devil in seven. Though it costs you a few of your favorite tendons and more blood than most would be comfortable with, you weather the storm and Arseface's torrent of strikes slows down long enough for you to confirm your suspicions.

Though his physicality is unmatched, his fundamentals are garbage. He's been using the same handful of swings the entire time; no feints, no combinations, no real understanding of footwork. You're not sure this guy's ever been pushed. Hell, you're hard-pressed to think of anyone who even could push him, besides you and that bitey Protestant shitstain. Aw, I love you too.

With a blur of motion you're getting better and better at perceiving, he reaches into his coat and draws a pistol. Nobody taught him the principle of center mass, however, and you weave past the two shots that erupt from it. You step back into range, angling towards his right to draw out the diagonal swing he loves to lead with. Sure enough, he takes the bait.

You bring up the Club o' Righteousness and catch the blade between several of its wicked protrusions. With a grin, you twist it like this.

He's so surprised that even his insane reflexes can't save him from the beam of light that erupts from the tip and catches him square in the chest.

The explosion sends him flying backwards, feathery cloak ablaze. He desperately tries to scramble his way back to his feet and pat out the flames, though his ravaged right shoulder makes this an almost comical effort. You take a step towards him and he flinches, nearly falling over himself in an effort to get away from you.

With his one good hand, he fishes among his clothing, searching for something while keeping his focus on you. For maybe the first time in his fighting life, you made him look stupid, and it would take a dozen of those masks to hold in the hate that's practically a physical force at this point.

[] Write in...

--

CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Deep cut in upper chest that caught collarbone, moderate blood loss

Bloody Crow: Severe damage to chest and right shoulder

 

[Tricia]

Like fuck you're going to let him pull some secret weapon from his knickers. Nails and pages erupt from your sleeves and swarm towards him, tearing through the night air with a high-pitched shriek.

The reflexes are still there, though. He manages to leap to his left and the holy storm slams uselessly into the cobbles. In his panic, however, he jumps too high, making it trivial to slam an explosive bayonet into his landing spot. Once again, you're disappointed that you can't see his face; that would have been one Hell of a Kodak Moment.

The explosion catches him just before he hits the ground, tearing away even more of his armor and shattering whatever was in his hands. He doesn't manage to regain his footing before you've buried another handful of munitions at his feet. He leaps away frantically, but what you assume to be confusion when they don't explode causes him to hesitate when he lands.

Conveniently, just long enough for the next volley to explode at his feet.

"Never shall innocent blood be shed," you grin, taking advantage of Yharnam's dearth of pop culture. Your arms are a blur as you force him to dance, his inhuman speed held back by his inability to predict the next fusillade. "Yet the blood of the wicked shall flow like a river. The..."

Three? Four? Technically, you and the Powder Kegs were the only ones here, but it seems rude to exclude Eileen.

"...Four shall spread their blackened wings and be the striking hammer of God!"

Despite his difficulties, you're having trouble landing a telling hit. You've knocked some solid dents into his leggings and his feathery cloak is so ragged it looks like it came from a Skeksis, but he's still moving well. You can't pin him down.

During his next leap, he finally gets the guts to strike back, firing another pair of rounds at your head. As you dodge, he takes the opportunity to close the distance once again. By the time he reaches you, he's dropped the pistol and switched his katana to his left hand, apparently figuring that it's better to use his weaker arm than the one whose shoulder is currently meatloaf.

Steel again meets carapace, but this time, the blade bites deep. There's a reddish haze around it that wasn't there before. In addition, the grip has sprouted a series of spines, tearing through his gauntlets and essentially pinning itself to his hand. The spines are translucent enough for you to make out the flow of blood from hand to sword.

Even with his off-hand, the newfound cutting power is more than the Club o' Righteousness can handle. You can feel his smug grin as his blade inches closer and closer to you, parting the alien tissue with the inevitability of a meteor strike.

So you punch him in the liver.

The strike practically folds him in half and he staggers back, dragging the blade along with his limp palm.

"Weak opponents have cost ye yer strength."

You rear back and slam your boot into his mask. The thin metal crumples as he flies back in a heap.

"Victory..."

Directly into the bayonets with extra-long fuses.

"...has defeated ye."

Without a concussion to hamper you, your dramatic timing is flawless. Your weapons explode as soon as you finish speaking and the man makes his first sound of the fight: a high-pitched scream as the force ravages his mask. Still screaming, he rips it from his face and vomits blood.

To his credit, he makes a final effort to get to his feet, but neither his "good" arm nor his legs have any strength left in him. Disoriented, terribly injured, and still feeling the effects of the body shot, he shakes as he makes a vain effort to pull out a new trick. Blood vials, some of that Numbing Mist you found on Lumnia, and what looks like half a femur tumble from the ragged remains of his cloak.

And yet he drags himself forward. He spits out teeth, his burns sizzle, and he drags himself forward.

He still wants to win.

[] Try to talk to him

[] Finish him

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You're not exactly sure if it's determination, petulance, or something else, but whatever's driving this guy is unbelievable. You've broken him physically and mentally; by all rights, he should be lying there in the fetal position and pissing himself.

From both an honorable and a pragmatic standpoint, he's earned a clean death.

You reach into your sleeves and pull out your sword as his one good arm searches for a grip among the shattered stones. His face is so swollen and burned that you can't tell his eyebrow from his nostril and his brain's probably so rattled it can't tell left from eggplant, but onward he scrapes. You plant your foot on the side of his head and raise your blade.

"Ye're fuckin' strong. 's jus' bad luck ye wound up fightin' me."

You bury the massive sword nearly to the hilt in the ground. The cut is so clean his head doesn't even roll.

"Jus' bad fuckin' luck."

PREY SLAUGHTERED​

You take a deep breath of the quiet evening. The impassive moon blots out the stars and fills the plaza with ethereal silver, giving the absolute bloody mess you've made an air of artistic grace. For a moment, you sit and collect your thoughts in the shadow of the Grand Cathedral's broken corpse.

"Damn fine fight, Father Anderson."

You turn to see Djura walking towards you, gun on his shoulder and gore-soaked Stake Driver hanging loosely in his grip. You return to your feet and give him a wave.

"Back already?" you ask.

"Never left. Steffon took the Churchfolk back to the chapel and I waited on that roof," he replies with a jerk of his thumb. "I was planning to put a hole through his head if he managed to kill you."

"Sorry for wastin' yer time, then."

The two of you walk over to the fallen Arseface. Once Djura's kicked the body to his satisfaction, you go through his scattered supplies. You can see his eyebrows rise behind his blindfold at the sight of the half-femur.

"An Old Hunter's Bone," he breathes. "Valuable thing."

"What's it do?"

"If you break it, it grants you incredible speed for a short period of time, so I've heard."

You narrowly stop yourself from asking just how in the Protestant Hell that works. It's not any crazier than what you've already been through tonight. After he's finished pocketed the dead man's assorted goodies, the two of you survey the carnage for a short while, noting the pair of black beanbag-shaped objects waddling furiously towards it in the distance, before turning back towards the chapel.

You arrive to find a large number of your new recruits milling about outside, several sporting the telltale smoking hands of those who poke things when told not to. Todd walks over to meet you.

"Ah, hullo, Father Anderson. Glad you're not dead; some of us thought you'd be. Not me, of course. Had all the faith in the world you could take him. Told Johnathan as much. I said to him, 'he'll be back any minute now, I'm sure of it.'"

Johnathan nods in affirmation.

"Anyway, Mister Steffon and Vicar Rosemary went inside with the scary crow lady." He shuffles his feet. "I don't suppose you could, ah, let us in as well? Some of the lads are a bit jumpy after all that excitement."

"Gimme a minute," you reply. Todd smiles nervously and goes back to awkwardly shuffling his feet, which he does with the casual ease of an expert in the field, while you and Djura make your ways through the ward.

Eileen and Steffon raise their hands in greeting from either side of the bound Vicar Rosemary. The visibly-relieved Iosefka and her two assistants scurry up to meet you and you dispense hugs appropriately.

Maybe it ain't home quite yet, but it's something close.

[] Talk to
-[] Eileen
-[] Iosefka

[] Begin interrogation
-[] Questions?

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You enjoy the comfort of the girls' hugs for some time, feeling a little guilty about them having to touch the frankly ludicrous amount of blood you're covered in.

"I'm so glad ye're alright."

"A handful of Churchmen came to the chapel after the fighting started but none of them managed to get through the ward," says Iosefka. "It took two of them burning their hands to catch on."

"They looked like this," says Fiddle, who releases her grip and clutches her hand dramatically with a fairly convincing rictus of agony.

"Well, that's what they get for tryin' ta disturb a place o' the LORD," you say. "God doesn't like when bad men try ta hurt good people."

You rise to your feet and take stock of the chapel. It's...not nearly as bustling as you expected. Eileen's efforts seem to have produced only a lovely young woman in Victorian dress and a downcast middle-aged man making a pointed effort to pretend he's the only one there. With the Churchmen outside (save for a couple of dinged-up ones occupying beds), the place remains mostly empty.

"That's all?" you ask her.

She shakes her head. "A good portion of the homes belonged to the fools outside. The rest either wouldn't listen, weren't home, or had already turned." She leans closer to you. "Easy access to blood ministration may have led them to abuse it, and given what we know about the blood, this isn't surprising."

You nod. "And those two?"

"Neither of them trust the Church. That man wouldn't even tell me his name; he only followed me because I told him I was a Hunter of Hunters. Arianna was the only sensible one there."

The woman in question waves at you while the man continues to sulk in his little pity corner.

"I'll have ta introduce m'self," you say, cracking your neck. "Gotta deal with a certain heathen bint first, though."

You blanch and turn back to the girls. "Please don't repeat that."

They nod, Fiddle a little more slowly than Emma, and you make your way over to the kneeling Rosemary. Iosefka tells the little ones to go check on their patients; probably a bit too early for their first hostile interrogation.

"Right, let's just make this easy on everyone. Start singin' like a canary."

She gives you a quizzical look. "I don't know what those are."

Damn cultural differences getting in the way of your badass interrogation scene.

"Y'know, the cute wee yellow birds? Sing a lot?"

She shakes her head.

"Fine, then. Sing like...." Wait, the crows here just waddle and yell at people. You turn to Eileen. "Who's one of the more famous singers here?"

Eileen looks away and shuffles her feet.

"Really?" you say, looking around at the rest of your equally-embarrassed companions.

"I'm not really a music person," she says.

"More of a visual arts fan," says Iosefka.

"I've been in an isolated town that was on fire for the last however-many years," says Djura. Steffon points at him and nods.

You roll your eyes and return your gaze to Rosemary. "Fine, then. Just tell me about Ebrietas and the Choir, who probably don't sing as much as the name would suggest."

She raises a finger. "They actually have an a cappella group-"

"SHUT IT."

"Alright, then. What do you wish to know?"

"A location would be nice."

She points upward. "Upper Cathedral Ward, past the Workshop. The Choir convene there and commune with Ebrietas. I've never been there, myself; I serve as an intermediary between them and the Church's upper echelon."

"What about their numbers? People o' interest?"

"I spoke only with Praesti, one of the lower-ranked members. I've interacted with others only in passing."

You raise your sleeve just enough to show steel. "Are ye lyin' ta me?"

"No. I am still cognizant of what you'll do to me if I mislead you. And, meaning no offence, I am quite confident in the Choir's ability to deal with you."

You frown and lower your arm. "Did ye happen ta know a lady by the name o' 'Lumnia?'"

"I did not. Was she a member of the Choir?"

"She was. And she died with honor. I just wanted ye ta know."

"Hmm."

After a brief pause, she speaks up again.

"How did you get away from the Artificial Hunter, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Get away? I killed him."

Rosemary gives you the facial equivalent of the Blue Screen of Death. You can almost hear the gears in her brain struggling to reorient themselves.

"How? What trick did you use?" she sputters.

"No tricks. One-on-one combat, the way God intended. He was strong, sure, but the LORD protects His children."

Her eyes are approximately the size of sliotars. She looks desperately at Djura, who nods in confirmation, then falls back onto her rear and breathes out deeply.

"Fuck, I just told you where Ebrietas is."

You grin. "No take backs."

[] Continue interrogation
-[] The Artificial Hunter
-[] Byrgenwerth
-[] Other

[] Talk to someone else

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"Speakin' o' that," you say, changing the topic before she can sink too deeply into her funk, "what was that prick's deal? How the Hell'd he get so strong without knowin' how ta fight?"

Rosemary shakes her head to clear out the lingering cobwebs and sighs.

"You are familiar with blood echoes, are you not?"

"Roughly, yeah."

"While I was still an initiate,the Choir discovered that even if several Hunters collaborate in capturing a beast, only its killer will receive the creature's echoes. The same is true for slain Hunters. After determining this, they set out to create a human weapon. Captured beasts, Hunters that had lost themselves, Church members that had become liabilities; they fed them all to the Artificial Hunter."

You raise an eyebrow. "That's how he got strong; doesn't explain why he couldn't fight."

"That was their insurance policy. They believed that Ahab, the Church's strongest and most experienced Hunter, had the skills to overcome the physical disparity in case of emergency. They were incredibly confident, all the way until the Artificial Hunter split Ahab in two."

"How'd ye wind up stoppin' him, then?"

"Fifty Hunters at once. He killed thirty-one and crippled another sixteen for life."

"And ye still kept him alive? Ever heard o' the 'sunk cost fallacy?'"

"That creature you slew? There are many, many more of them. Everywhere. We know what the Great Ones are capable of, should we displease them; we needed something that could stop them."

Your mouth twitches unsettlingly, trying to decide whether to grimace or smile at the prospect of facing more Mediocre Ones. Thankfully, Rosemary is probably too unsettled by everything else you've done to react to it.

"Why him?" you ask. "What made ye pick this idiot ta be yer fourth-dimensional-space-spider deterrent?"

"They made a deal," she says. "He gave us the location of Cainhurst Castle; without him, Logarius' crusade could never have happened."

You remember Alfred and the hate pulsing beneath that boyish face and motion her to continue.

"He was a servant in the castle; as he put it, he grew tired of his role and murdered one of the nobles in cold blood. He stole the man's armor and, drenched in blood, fled to us, offering to betray the location in exchange for, in his words, 'the strength to never be anyone's servant again.' The man was a scavenger, insecure and cowardly. Some of the other intermediaries took to calling him the 'Bloody Crow of Cainhurst.'"

Eileen visibly flinches at the name and turns to you.

"What was he wearing, Anderson?" she asks in a forcibly steady tone.

"Some silver armor, plus a coat that kinda looked like yers."

You swear you can hear her grinding her teeth from behind the mask. She turns towards Rosemary, visibly trembling.

"That's what happened, isn't it? That's what happened to Ash and the rest of the Hunters of Hunters. You fed them to that thing. You turned my comrades into fodder for your toy."

"I had no part in the Crow's creation. He was restrained before I even knew of his existence."

Eileen clenches her fists but remains silent, motioning for you to continue.

"So that's his story. What about Byrgenwerth? Heard a lot about th' place."

She shifts in place, switching load-bearing buttocks. Eileen and Steffon did not have comfort in mind when tying her up.

"The Church was born in Byrgenwerth; their studies of the old blood paved the way for blood ministration. Under Master Willem's tutelage. Laurence obtained the knowledge necessary to build the Healing Church. Unfortunately, the place is crawling with aberrations and only accessible through the Forbidden Woods, which are plagued with serpents. We don't even know if Master Willem is alive."

Sounds like a lovely holiday spot.

"Old blood?" you ask.

"The blood of Ebrietas and the Great Ones. The scholars at Byrgenwerth found Ebrietas in the catacombs beneath Yharnam, left behind by her kin. She granted them her blood and, with it, the key to ascension."

"Ye've been doin' a bang-up job of that so far."

To her credit, she takes the mockery like a champ. When no further questions are forthcoming, she looks up at you.

"Do you wish to know anything else or are you ready to kill me?"

[] Continue interrogation
-[] Topic?

[] Kill her; you made a promise

[] Leave her alive for now; no use killing her before you've killed her god

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"Well someone's eager," you say. You start to grin, then remember that this city is a nightmarish shithole besieged by unknowable creatures who are to sanity what England is to national independence. Plus, you are kinda in the process of demolishing her life's work. The mortal coil probably doesn't hold too much appeal for her at the moment.

"But nah," you continue. "Still got some questions . Actually, this might take a while; you want a drink? Snack?" You look around at your companions. "Anyone?"

"I'll take some water," says Djura.

"Had some before you got here, but thanks," says Steffon.

"No thank you," says Iosefka.

"I think I need to step outside and clear my head," says Eileen. "Come get me when you're finished."

"Some water would be nice, actually," says Rosemary.

You nod and make your way over to the Powder Kegs' stockpile, grabbing three tins of water and a potato. Getting carved up by an egotistical high school science project makes a man mighty hungry.

Once you've passed out the beverages and taken a few bites from your tuber of choice, you put on your inquisting face again, although the effect is somewhat spoiled by Djura's slurping.

"Right then, back ta business. Ever heard of a chap by the name o' Gehrman?"

Rosemary finishes a long pull from her chin, puts it down, and scrunches her face in concentration.

"I haven't heard the name, I'm afraid."

"Wheelchair? Cool hat? Slightly creepy? Ringin' any bells?"

She shakes her head. and you frown. Down the checklist you go.

"Alright, then. Tell me more about Willem and Laurence; I've heard o' the latter, but only in his capacity for makin' kickass swords." You pull out the blade for emphasis and spend a few moments trying to get the angle just right to illuminate the etchings.

"Master Willem," she replies, "was...is....the greatest mind Byrgenwerth had ever seen. He, along with his student Laurence, plumbed the secrets of the old blood. They clashed over its use and Laurence left him to found the Healing Church, becoming both its first leader and its greatest craftsman. Soon after its creation, Laurence lost contact with Willem due to a horde of parasitic snakes making Byrgenwerth impossible to reach."

"Parasitic snakes?"

"They infest the body and destroy the brain. I'm told they explode out of the host's neck when threatened. It's quite gruesome."

"I'll take yer word for it."

"The snakes aren't the only issue; the Choir managed to slip two agents into Byrgenwerth, but only one made it back. She said she attempted to make contact with Master Willem, but encountered a spider-like creature that forced her to retreat."

You narrowly stop yourself from making a "web of intrigue" pun.

"I'll take some good boots and RAID when I visit, then. While we're on the subject o' Byrgenwerth, who can I complain to about all these bloody levers everyplace?"

She gets a pained look on her face. "On this, at least, we are of one mind, Father Anderson. The Church has tried to replace the levers, but we have no idea how they work. By all accounts, they don't make sense. If it makes you feel any better, the Church struck the architect's name from their history."

That does, in fact, make you feel better.

"Alright, last question until I think of a better one: would ye happen ta know the names o' the other Mediocre Ones? Ye call 'em Great Ones, but the one outside threw a bitch fit when I kicked its arse." With a frankly unnecessary flourish, you produce the club, which is holding together quite well considering the ugly gouge Arseface left in it. "I'm itchin' ta get me some more toys."

Her mind seems to take a moment to process the idea of someone fashioning an eldritch pseudo-deity into a bludgeoning implement, but manages to return her jaw and eyebrows to their neutral positions in record time.

"The one you killed was one of the Amygdala; there are more hidden throughout the city. You know of Ebrietas. There is also Formless Oedon, for whom this chapel was named. Unfortunately for you, Oedon does not possess an 'arse' to kick. Hence the name."

Well, that's disappointing, but it's also a unique opportunity. You've never kicked a hypothetical arse before.

"And what's his deal?"

"I do not know. If the Choir does, it is not a secret they saw fit to pass on." She takes another long drink and again shifts her position; the floor designs are lovely but certainly not meant for comfortable seating.

"That is all I know of the Great Ones," she says. "If you don't mind my asking a question, what do you intend to do, Father Anderson? Do you think you can kill them all? If you do, what then? What am I helping you accomplish?"

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You reach up and tap your chin, looking up and "hmmm"-ing in faux concentration.

"Do I think I can kill 'em all? Well, lass, I just remembered that while I gave ye my name, we haven't really been properly introduced. So..."

You rear up to your full height; it's not always obvious next to the giant fuckers you deal with, but there is a lot of you. You grin in anticipation of finally being able to preach to a-

No, bad Anderson. No "captive audience" joke. You're better than that.

Anyway, where were you? Oh, right.

"I am Father Alexander Anderson. Killing Judge. The Purifier. Saint Guillotine. God's Assassin. I dragged those titles from the throats of abominations beyond yer reckoning. I have killed things that would make yer false gods bow down and worship. Yesterday, I cut through a city of monsters and capped it off by fightin' an immortal shapeshiftin' bastard who pulled an army ten-thousand-strong out of his arse as an openin' move, an' I did most of it with one arm. Then I came ta Yharnam, and so far?

"I am not impressed.

"Those beasts in the streets you lot shit yer britches over and hide from in the Cathedral? They don't even slow me down. The Mediocre One? I carved it up for parts. The Artificial Hunter who had every one o' you pissin' yer pants? I put him down like the untrained amateur he was.

"So no, lass, I don't think I can kill yer gods. I know I can. And that's exactly what I'm gonna do. And once I'm done, I'm gonna help the survivors of this city as a good Christian should. As a good person should."

You lift Rosemary up by her collar, dangling her completely off the ground as you give her the most disapproving glare decades of Catholic teaching can provide.

"As you fuckin' didn't."

You drop her back down.

"I'm gonna burn yer wickedness ta the ground and build a good world from the ashes."

She looks to your stone-faced companions one after the other, visibly sweating.

"And you're all following this man?"

"He's doing a damn sight better than you lot ever did," replies Djura.

You look around the chapel and notice that Agatha, the new lady, the girls, and both of the injured Churchmen are staring at you. Hopefully Eileen briefed them on the situation, because that was a lot to take in.

The new guy continues to ignore you like a champ.

You reluctantly shelve the maniacal laughter that would ordinarily accompany one of your sermons and watch Rosemary try to surreptitiously scoot as far away from you as possible. With a grin, you step over and clap her on her shoulder, producing a satisfying twitch.

"And just think: it's all thanks ta yer kindly assistance."

The color doesn't so much drain from her face as sprint headlong away from it. You're pretty sure even Hope has a healthier pallor than her right now.

"So," you say, "now that everyone's on the same page, whatever shall we do with you?"

[] Kill her now

[] Keep her alive

[] Write in...

AFTERWARDS

[] Talk to
-[] Who?

[] Go to
-[] Upper Cathedral Ward
-[] Byrgenwerth
-[] Other

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You lightly bonk yourself on the forehead. "What was I thinkin'? This ain't my decision to make." She tilts her head in confusion and you jerk a thumb over your shoulder. "It's theirs."

Judging by her face, which has somehow managed to break the metaphorical floor and fall even further, she had just enough time to figure out what you mean before you tossed her over your shoulder. She manages some perfunctory thrashing,, but thankfully doesn't scream. That would just be tacky.

You will the ward around the chapel to dissipate and step into the mass of milling Churchmen, who have the looks of mixed anxiety and desperation that characterize co-workers trying to interact outside of work. These poor sods might not even have the universal crutch of professional sports results.

You toss her into the middle of the crowd and clear your throat.

"Vicar Rosemary has confessed her sins before God. She has admitted ta deceivin' ye all and aidin' in the spread o' the plague. Do with her what ye will. Righteous indignation, petty grudges, it's all fair game. Come on in when ye're done and we'll get ye all situated."

You notice one of the members pull a ruler from the recesses of his robes and give a decidedly impious grin. You turn around and head back inside once he starts tapping it threateningly against his palm. The last thing you hear before you close the door is "NOW who's 'not showing enough deference to your elders,' huh?!"

You were expecting more of Yharnam's crucifixion fetish, but that works, too.

Once inside, you note that the young lady (Arianna?) is still eyeing you oddly. Figuring now's as good a time as any, you walk over to her in the least threatening fashion you can and offer a hand.

"Hope I didn't scare ye, lass."

She smiles and takes your hand with an impressively firm grip. "Miss Eileen warned me that you were very enthusiastic. My name is Arianna, and I thank you for your hospitality."

You smile and give a slight bow. "It's the least we could do. Can't go leavin' good folk in the crossfire when we're turnin' the world upside-down, after all."

Her smile buckles a bit at that and she sinks deeper into her seat. "I have to admit...meaning no offense, Father Anderson, but this is all quite a bit more than I was expecting. The Church was communing with some forgotten alien creature?"

"Apparently so."

"And you intend to fight it?"

"I intend ta kill it."

She bites her lip. "And what happens if you lose?"

"I won't."

She mulls on this for a moment before sighing. "Well, I suppose I'm still safer here than anywhere else, and if you're really going to change the world, I'm glad I get to be part of it. If there's anything I can do to help you, let me know; all I can really offer is my blood, I'm afraid."

"Pardon?"

"My blood is uniquely potent and can aid healing, if you desire it."

"I, well, I appreciate the offer, thanks. All I really ask is that ye keep everyone company; this is gonna be a long night, an' we could all use some friends."

Her smile returns, warm as cider. "I think I can do that, Father."

You nod and walk over to Iosefka and the Powder Kegs, who are crowded around the cracked-open door and watching the proceedings outside with the excited attentiveness of schoolgirls. You catch bits of their whispered gossip as you approach.

"Where did they even find that board?"

"Is that paint? Do they just carry it with them everywhere?"

"You're worried about that and not the rope?"

You take advantage of the fact that you're taller than all of them and slip your head through the gap. The Churchmen appear to be hogtying Rosemary and have attached a wooden board that reads, in surprisingly well-proportioned letters, "I Am A Massive Knobhead" to her chest. Her attempts to soldier through this with dignity appear destined for failure.

One of them catches sight of you and scurries over. "You can't look yet, it's gonna be a surprise," he hisses before rejoining the cackling horde. The four of you oblige and head back inside.

"What is it?" Iosefka asks.

"I'm gonna take a quick trip back ta the Hunter's Dream." You pull out the club, the top portion of which is dangling slightly. "Figure I might as well get this fixed before I go twelve rounds with some freaky alien genotype. If those lot come in while I'm gone, let 'em know that if they're rude ta the girls I'll cut their arses off an' make 'em wear 'em like hats."

Djura nods. "Alright, then. Steffon and I will get some of our gear cleaned up in the meantime."

"I'll go find Eileen," Iosefka chimes in.

With everything settled, you head over to the lantern, nothing with a smile that Arianna has the girls on her lap and apparently very engrossed in the story she's telling.

Everyone can use some friends.

When you arrive in the Dream, Hope is wide awake, save the sizable yawn she hurriedly hides at your approach.

"Well met, Hunter Anderson," she says after her customary bow. "How goes your journey in the waking world?

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[Tricia]

You roll your shoulders for thematic purposes and grin. "Darn well, actually. Complete success for all intents and purposes, no one who matters died, and justice has been served in more ways than one. Most importantly, I finally got done makin' my proclamations without interruptions."

She claps her hands together and gives a wide smile in return. "Wonderful! You must tell me of your adventures." The handful of messengers crowding around her feet, seemingly getting into the spirit of things, pump their tiny fists.

The great thing about the dream, aside from the free laundry service and socialized medicine, is the stillness. In both a figurative and literal sense, the world's ground to a halt. Your to-do list's getting long enough to make a ward out of, but that's something for later. For now, there's just you, a curious Doll, and an ever-growing pile of Messengers jockeying for prime listening positions.

When you've finished, Hope wrings her ball-jointed hands together.

"You speak of your God and the love He has for His children. I am a doll, made by humans. Would He love me?"

You're taken aback for a moment, but put on a smile for her.

"Can't imagine why He wouldn't, so long as ye're willin' ta accept it. God loves kindness and charity and ye've given plenty of both. Ye may not be exactly like us, but I know the Good Lord loves ye all the same." Your smile twists into a grin. "Maybe even more; in my experience, folks especially love their grandkids, since all the bad stuff is the parents' problem."

She seems to ponder this for a time, wooden face inscrutable. Finally, she sighs.

"I have so much faith that you will succeed, Father Anderson, and I hope that you will continue to visit me. I just wish that I could be part of your new world." She returns to her feet and bows deeply. "Thank you, Father. I'm sure Gehrman wishes to hear of your exploits as well."

Unsure of how to respond, you bow as well and, with a final look over your shoulder, make your way to the Workshop. Hope returns to her preferred ledge and sits, absent-mindedly patting the nearest Messengers on the head.

This time, the old man is waiting for you right inside the doorway. He looks up at you with...is it pity? in his eyes.

"She's not real, you know."

"Sure seems that way ta me."

"She's a thing. A mistake from a long time ago. Don't give her those sorts of ideas."

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[Tricia]

You lock eyes with Gehrman for a tense moment. His statement had a tone of friendly warning, like someone telling a friend not to headbutt bee hives for his own sake, but you still get the sense you're staring down a very, very deep well with something terrible at the bottom.

"Not for you or I ta judge whether the lass's a person or not. That's the LORD's decision ta make. Who am I ta deny the hope of salvation?

"But," you continue before he has a chance to interject, "I'm thinkin' that'll be a long conversation between you and me, one we'll have ta save for another time. Meanwhile, ye'll probably wanna take a look at this while I tell ye 'bout the asshole what did it and what I did ta him."

You dig deep in your sleeves and retrieve your fractured club, offering it to Gehrman for inspection. The old man seems to toy with the idea of treating "another time" as "ten seconds after you said that" before sighing and taking the proffered weapon. He turns the thing around in his hands, examining the assorted nicks and slices before moving on to the obvious point of interest.

"Right through the chitin and a good way into the bone as well. I'm actually impressed; did a human do this?"

"In the strictest sense o' the term, I suppose. Apparently they crammed some prick with a katana full o' blood echoes so they could point him at things they didn't like and then run away. He showed up once we'd finished stormin' the Cathedral."

He raises an eyebrow. "What sort of katana?"

"A damn sharp one. Plus, it drank his blood or somethin' like that. Glowed all red."

"Ah, the chikage," he says. "Haven't seen that weapon in some time. Certainly a clever design; over-reliant on the early kill, but lethal in the right hands."

He's transitioned smoothly back into business, his earlier uncharacteristic emotion nowhere to be found.

"And judging by this, it certainly was in the right hands. What was this man like?"

"Fast," you say. "Strong. Just had no clue how ta fight. The vicar we had a chat with said they'd just tie up beasts and Hunters and let him kill them for the echoes."

A severe frown creases his face and he wheels his way over to the workbench, producing an array of twisted implements you're amazed he didn't lose several fingers in the process of mastering. After pulling some assorted chunks of Mediocre One from a drawer, he begins his work.

No duct tape in sight. The man is a true master.

"An integral part of being a Hunter," he says between thwacks, "is respect for one's quarry. You're free to hate them, of course, but there's a sort of bond that develops in combat. It's as important to a Hunter as the skills they hone. Someone gaining strength by binding their opposition and treating them purely as fodder is," he clenches his fist and you swear you can see the metal tool crack, "appalling. I trust you killed him?"

"Aye. He chewed me up good for a bit, but nobody's killin' me without some real skill." I'm flattered.

He grunts approvingly and returns to his ministrations. Not wishing to interrupt him and inadvertently correct the aforementioned finger issue, you take a seat and relax.

You wonder what Francis would think of you now. You remember how mortified he was when you gave him that Jötunn head as a welcoming gift to the Vatican, but maybe that was just because you hadn't showered since cutting your way out of its digestive tract.

"Father Anderson," he says after some time, "you've felled a Great One and torn out the heart of the Healing Church. I must admit I'm curious what's next."

"The Church's pet alien," you say. "Name o' Ebrietas."

He visibly stiffens at the name. Though he tries to play it off, there's no disguising the impact it made on him.

"Well," he says, voice steady, "whatever this 'Ebrietas' might be, you have quite a bit of momentum going for you." He looks back over his shoulder. "Nearly finished; you'll be on your way shortly."

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