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

[Tricia]

Considering the sped with which Gehrman manage d to brush that outburst under the metaphorical rug, you're pretty sure a straightforward interrogation would probably just end with you knowing less than when you started and him immeasurably pissed. This will require a more subtle approach.

"Well, ye're wound tighter than a spring, so I guess that means nothin'?" You reach forward to clap him on the shoulder before realizing that he's currently wound tighter than a spring an currently holding several uncomfortably-sharp instruments. "Well, if ye ever happen to remember if ye do know it, then be sure to tell me pretty soon, eh? Any tips that ye might 'ave could be a lifesaver to me and my new posse of very lethal buddies."

You turn towards the door, walking towards it at approximately a mosey.

"Ye know, I'm the only one o' the group whose bits grows back. Sure would be a shame if somethin' happened ta those dear friends o' mine."

A third of the way to the door. You think you see some sweat on his collar.

"We've got kids with us, too. Couple o' real sweet kids. Who knows what Ebrietas might do if she gets away from me?"

Two-thirds. You put extra effort into each one of your footfalls and look over your shoulder with the best puppy eyes a two-meter mountain of violent zealotry can offer.

"Can ye imagine? All the good folk we've managed ta find, cowerin' in fear in the face o' some unknowable monster from beyond. 'Oh, if only brave Father Anderson had known somethin' about this beast. Maybe then we wouldn't be sufferin' this horrible fate.'"

Nothing. Man's solid as a rock.

With a sigh, you step outside and plod down towards the lantern. It's fine; you've dealt with Ebrietas' third cousin or whatever. You can handle her, even without Gehrman's you forgot the fucking club.

You slink back into the Workshop, scratching the back of your head idly. Gehrman spins in his chair and, without a word, offers you the newly-repaired club, which now sports criss-crossed chitin bands in the area of the former gouge. With mumbled thanks, you shove it into the depths of your sleeves and head for the door. He remains silent, although you can see him biting his lip.

He looks very, very old.

You note on the way down that Hope has relocated to the lone grave beside one of the Workshop's other two exits. Her tremendous height means it takes you a moment to realize that she's kneeling, head locked downwards in a pose of deep prayer. You wonder what she's praying for.

You wonder what she's praying to.

The lantern's attendant Messengers watch as you approach, quiet as ever.

[] Talk to Hope

[] Return to the chapel
-[] Talk to
--[] Who?
-[] Go to Upper Cathedral Ward

 

[Tricia]

Well, guilt-tripping an ageless weaponsmith may not be your specialty, but this is right up your alley. You make your way over to the lonesome grave, careful not to interrupt her. As you approach, you catch the last bits of her prayer swaying through the air along with the luminous flowers.

"O Flora, of the moon, of the dream. O little ones, O fleeting will of the ancients... Let the hunter be safe, let him find comfort. And let this dream, his captor...foretell a pleasant awakening...be, one day, a fond, distant memory..."

She remains kneeling for some moments before rising to her impressive height and turning to face you, eyes downcast even further than is necessary.

"Didn't mean ta disturb ye, Hope."

"Do not worry, good Hunter. I merely wished to offer what aid I could."

"Thank ye. There's no greater boon than knowin' that someone's prayin' for ye."

She briefly turns to regard the grave before making eye contact with you.

"You've told me that you pray to your God for guidance. Does He answer?"

You hesitate for a moment, recalling your history with sarcastic atheists who asked the same thing before being punted into the nearest lake, before realizing she's being earnest.

"He does, though it's not always obvious until later. His answers are subtle, but the wisest ye could ask for."

You rummage through your sleeves until you find an unmarred copy of the Word. You offer it to her and she takes it, feeling the rough cover and testing its heft.

"Many years ago," you say, "He spoke ta us directly through His chosen prophets. Later, He sent his only son ta die for our sins. That book is His Word, passed on from generation ta generation. In my times of need, it has given me strength and comfort."

She looks from your face to the book, then clutches it to her chest. The Messengers about her feet crane their necks to get a better look.

"Thank you, Father. I have...I have not received such a gift before."

After a short pause, her expression drops once more and her grip on the Bible tightens.

"Be safe, Hunter Anderson. Please."

You give her the ballsiest grin in your arsenal, the kind you'd wear on your way to a pissing contest with the Devil. "God protects His children. All Hell can't stop me, and Lord knows it has tried."

She flashes a small grin of her own and the two of you give your customary bows. On your way back to the Lantern, a handful of Messengers give you encouraging pats on the calves.

As you enter the infinite blackness, you vaguely wonder whose grave that was.

Eileen and Iosefka are beside you when you wake. The former points upwards.

"Djura and Steffon are still working on their equipment on the roof. You'd think they'd be better at getting blood out of things after all these years."

"Ye'd be surprised."

[] Talk to
-[] Who?

[] Go to Upper Cathedral Ward
-[] Plan of action?

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You return to your feet, hopping a couple of times to get the feeling back in your legs, and turn towards your caretakers.

"Well, the club's all fixed and I've got me a target. I'm about ta head ta Upper Cathedral Ward; there's a lot o' righteous punishment that needs dealin' out and we're short on Hellfire and brimstone. Think ye can hold the fort and handle this lot while I'm out?"

"Not on your life, Anderson," Eileen replies before Iosefka can get a word in. "Not when the old men got to join you on the front lines last time. They're better at point-defence than I am, anyway. Them and the two Hunters you managed to recruit ought to be plenty."

You shrug. "Fair enough."

"I'll find things to keep the Churchmen occupied," says Iosefka. "The beds will be ready if you find any survivors up there."

"Speakin' o' survivors," you say, "the geezers and I-"

"Heard that," says Steffon, stepping out from the stairwell to grab some questionable-looking corn from the food stash.

"The crotchety old fucks and I," you say, disregarding his middle finger as he re-enters the hidden door, "ran inta an interestin' case. Either o' you happen ta know 'Vicar Amelia?'"

"In passing," Iosefka replies while Eileen shakes her head after a moment's pondering. "Just word-of-mouth, really. I'd heard she was very devoted to her work, but nothing specific."

"Well, turns out the good blood guided her wrong. She went Beast Mode on us in the Cathedral, but she didn't just get fuzzy. She turned inta this huge dog-deer thing with nasty big pointy teeth." You curl three fingers and hold them up by your mouth for emphasis.

"Only thing like it I've seen was the goatwolfgorilla I fought on the bridge, but that thing was just an animal. This woman was praying after she turned. Honestly, I'm not sure what ta do with her, so I just stuck 'er in a ward. Any ideas?"

"Praying?" asks a surprised-sounding Eileen. "Are you sure?"

"She was lookin' down with her hands together, so it's either that or she smashed a fly and felt really bad about it."

"It might not be that strange," says Iosefka with a hand on her chin. "If she was zealous enough in life, that compulsion could have lingered once she changed."

"Does that mean she's still in there?" you ask.

"It's not definitive," the doctor answers. "Did she show any other signs of intelligence?"

"None."

"If she's behind a ward, then the first step would be to try to communicate. If that doesn't work, our only options are to either hope you find a cure in Upper Cathedral Ward or Byrgenwerth or..." She purses her lips. "...put her out of her misery."

"She never would have gotten to that point if the Church had a cure," Eileen chimes in. "I'd say it's better to just kill the thing. Amelia's already dead."

"Djura'd disagree."

"We can't exactly release her humanely into the wild. The logistics are impossible."

You prepare to rebut her with an ingenious concept involving log rollers and horse tranquilizers, but figure that's best saved for later.

"She'll be safe enough behind the ward for the moment. We'll get ta her when all this simmers down. In the meantime," you say, turning on your heel, "let's see what the Idiot Brigade's done with Rosemary."

As it turns out, what they've done with Rosemary is stick her into some jury-rigged stocks and set up a competition to see who can hit her in the face with vegetable detritus from the farthest distance. As you watch, one of the Hunters adds another three meters to the current record with a well-aimed hunk of carrot to roaring approval.

They've also drawn an incredibly unflattering portrait of her, which they've placed on a placard next to the "I Am A Massive Knobhead" sign hanging from her neck.

Points for creativity, you suppose.

One of the Churchmen, a squat lady whose ballista-esque throw suggests that it's not fat beneath her robes, raises a hand in greeting.

"Like what we've done with her?" she asks with a grin. "Drew the picture m'self."

"The warts are a nice touch," you reply.

"She's got the nose for it, hasn't she? Anyway, some of us wanted to string her up and be done with it, but Eileen told us a bit about your big mission and we figure making her watch you succeed is the best possible punishment." She shrugs. "And we wanted to have a little fun, too. Lots of pent-up aggression here."

"I gathered."

"Well, don't want to keep you, and I need to get back in line before-"

Another splat and roar indicate that someone just broke thirty meters.

"Fuck!"

"Make sure yer toes're pointed right at her before you throw."

"Right, got it. Good luck!"

As you re-enter the chapel, you note that most of the inhabitants besides the new guy and Agatha (for obvious reasons) are deeply engaged in the event. You think you see money change hands and Arianna's fist-pump at the next successful throw confirms your suspicions.

You suppose it's as good an atmosphere as any to punch out an eldritch nightmare in.

[] Talk to
-[] Who?

[] Go to Upper Cathedral Ward

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

Now that you think about it, there's one person you haven't had a proper conversation with in a bit, and the moment before you slug it out with a betentacled golden calf is probably a good time to do so.

While the assorted strays you've rounded up have fun for this first time in the evening, you try to find some isolated part of the chapel where the floor won't turn your knees into a Jackson Pollock painting. Though options are terribly limited, you eventually locate a good spot and kneel.

Christ, Agatha must have some calluses for the ages.

Due to the chapel's lack of huge, badass crucifixes, which you intend to correct once all this nonsense is over with, you place the one around your neck before you, lower your head, and close your eyes. You've got quite a backlog, you realize, but there's always time.

You pray for Gascoigne and Viola, that they may find peace together and await their children in paradise, though they shall wait for a very, very long time.

For Eileen, Iosefka, Djura, and Steffon, so wronged by this world, that they may find joy in the arms of God.

For Agatha, Arianna, and the rest of your flock, that they may survive the coming storm and prosper in the new world you build together.

For Yharnam's sinners, that they may hear the voice of the LORD and renounce their ways before His glory.

And for yourself, that you may have the strength to spread His Word in fire and steel.

Your ears perk up at the sound of footsteps, disguised decently but not well enough. You open an eye to see Iosefka padding towards you. She notices your noticing her, but before she can unleash the apology you can practically see building in her throat, you wave her over with a smile. She kneels down next to you, trying several different spots for her knee before finding one that, judging by her relatively small grimace, is only slightly agonizing.

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd love to join you in prayer. I'm afraid I don't know any, however."

"Eh, it's about what's in yer heart, anyway. Go right ahead, Doctor."

She does so, and the cheering from the entrance fades from your mind as you enjoy the absolute serenity of the LORD. You only vaguely hear the two sets of feet, so much lighter than the doctor's, approach from your side and sink downwards.

When you open your eyes and stand after howevermuch time, you feel invigorated, and the deep breath you take tastes of honey and cloves.

You are Alexander Fucking Anderson, and you are never going to lose again.

[] Talk to
-[] Who?

[] Go to Upper Cathedral Ward

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

It's been a busy evening; it's not often you get to be judge, jury, prosecutor, and pitching coach in the span of an hour. Now's the time to kick back, relax, and unleash the kind of violence they write epics about.

"I'll be back in a bit," you say to Iosefka and the girls. "Got me a slug with delusions o' grandeur ta deal with." You lean down to give the girls a farewell hug and make your way over to where Eileen is waiting.

"Should we tell our geriatric friends we're goin'?"

She shakes her head. "No need. I've asked Johnathan to let them know once we're on our way. Probably best to be as far away as possible before they find out they're not coming."

"Wise."

The two of you head over to the door in question, which has been cleared of tripwires, mines, and tripwires attached to mines to add injury to insult.

"Still locked?" you ask.

"Johnathan had a key, thankfully. You won't have to blow the doors up and tip the old men off."

You frown, having been looking rather forward to blowing the doors up, but offer no complaints as she inserts the key and shoves the twin doors open. A short stairway leads to another of the dreaded elevators, which zips upwards once the two of you step on the pressure plate.

"Y'know, even if we do wind up findin' all the answers we need," you say as it rises, "I'm goin' ta Byrgenwerth anyway. I'm gonna destroy every trace o' this guy's work. This bullshit can't be allowed ta happen again."

Eileen nods and, before long, your ride grinds to a halt. Taking the lead, you walk through the arched hallway into the columned room beyond.

Only to be immediately intercepted by a hairy, wheelchair-bound man with a minigun.

A furious volley of rounds, interspersed with tracers, thunders towards you. If you weren't, well, you, this might be trouble. As is, you can run faster than he can aim, and you're soon standing beside his chair and looking down reproachfully.

He gives a weak "Heh," gestures from the minigun to you with a strained grin on his face, and then makes a desperate bid to swivel towards you. You simply grab hold of the nearest wheel and watch him struggle for a moment before slumping in defeat.

"Really?" you say.

"Usually works," he mumbles. "Most folks ain't as fast as you."

It takes him a moment to realize Eileen's had a knife to his neck since before he started firing. To his credit, he doesn't panic, instead giving you the look of a man who just watched the copier explode after pledging to work overtime that night.

"I was just doin' what they told me to," he says. "They told me not to let anyone through."

"Well," you say, "I'll tell 'em ye did yer best. Anyway, would ye mind lettin' us know where we could find Upper Cathedral Ward?"

"Upper Cathedral Ward? 'at's forbidden."

"Really? I guess we'll just head back then. Sorry for wastin' yer time. Come on, Eileen."

His face rises for a moment as he dares to hope. "Really?"

"Of course not fuckin' really. Now tell us 'fore I drop yer paraplegic arse out the window."

"Alright, alright. Just keep goin' up and you'll find it. All there is to it."

"Mighty kind of ye," you say, patting his head as condescendingly as possible. "I think that's all I really need ta know at the moment."

He gives a choked gasp as Eileen sticks a blade somewhere important. You look at her quizzically.

"You were done with him," she offers.

"Well, yeah, but I was just gonna tip him out o' the chair and then throw it out the window."

"That seems unnecessary."

"But it would be funny watchin' him crawl around."

She shrugs. You suppose that even friends have differences of opinion once in a while.

You step through the next door into the open air, standing on a narrow, fence-lined stone bridge connecting the chapel to a tiered tower. An unseen gunman clips your shoulder from above and you answer with a bayonet to the face while Eileen dispatches the cutlass-wielding wolfman that rushes in to intercept. As you step into the tower, a small horde of the bastards spring an ambush.

It was a pretty good ambush, all things considered, even if it did end with Eileen kicking a guy so hard it broke his neck and you smashing two of their heads together before pitching them off the bridge.

The two of you rumble up a semi-spiral staircase. Another laser of tracer fire blocks your progress and, as you wait for him to stop, another cutlassman leaps over the railing for a flying flank attack. This winds up working to your advantage, as you simply throw him towards the suspected source of the shots with a very satisfying thud.

Once they're taken care of, you step outside onto a narrow walkway that OSHA would be terribly displeased with, being about twelve feet wide with no safety railing. The wheelchair-bound gunman that winged you earlier learns the folly of being on a mobile platform two feet from a sheer drop and his scream just manages to drown out the gurgle of the lanky man with two blades sticking out of his femoral arteries.

A brick shithead pounds his way around the corner and barrels towards you shoulder-first. Thanks to his lack of subtlety, you have enough time to pull out your club and take a batting stance before launching him over the edge.

You frown. "Pulled it ta right field. That's a double if I'm lucky."

Eileen steps up to join you and, for a few seconds, the two of you simply enjoy the exquisite view of Yharnam's skyline. It really is a lovely city; shame everything in it's trying to kill you. She's breathing a bit heavy, but waves you off before you can open your mouth.

"There's a ladder further on."

As you reach the second tier, you see a handful of Messengers holding a scroll, similar to when you first arrived in the Dream. They unfurl it as you approach.

"The sky and the cosmos are one - The Choir."

"What's even the point o' puttin' that there?" you say. "Who's supposed ta read that? These idiots?"

"Based on what you told us about that Lumnia woman, it seems they have a flair for the dramatic."

Seeing no further paths upwards, you steel yourselves for a climactic showdown before swaggering through the doorway. You're quite disappointed when everyone inside throws down their weapons and surrenders.

"You got through everyone else," one of the two wheelchair-borne men explains. "Not like we could stop you."

The one of them not in a wheelchair does try to shank you when you reach the center of the room, but the others wear that was entirely his idea.

"Right then," you say, tossing the corpse out the doorway and into oblivion, "'s that door over there the way ta Upper Cathedral Ward?"

"Yeah," one says, "but it's locked."

"'Course it is. Either o' you got any way o' contactin' the rest o' the Church?"

When they shake their heads, you grin and hurl their wheelchairs over the edge one-by-one.

It is, in fact, pretty funny to watch them crawl around.

"Gotta say," you quip as they glare at you, "I've gotta respect yer assessment o' the situation. Ye were never gonna stop us; we're on a mission from God."

"Is that a reference to something?" Eileen asks. You shake your head, pitying her for being from a world without John Belushi, before remembering that you are also from a world without John Belushi.

[] Go in hot

[] Go in cautious

[] Go in sneaky

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

The door (well, doors) are thick, well-maintained, surrounded by candle-bearing vases, and have some lovely engravings above them. God, it'll be satisfying to bash them the fuck open.

"I'm not the sneaky type-"

"I am aware," Eileen interjects. Rude.

"-so I'll get their attention while ye go ta town on their spines. Sound like a plan?"

"As good as any."

You turn to the grouchy old men on the floor. "Either o' you got a key?"

When they shake their heads, you stretch out your legs with a couple of awkward kicks and plant yourself in front of the offending aperture. You wind back your leg and damn near take the doors off their hinges with a truly righteous boot.

"See ye gents later," you say over your shoulder as you swagger through. You catch a glimpse of middle fingers.

You spread your arms wide, flashing steel while Eileen vanishes with a powerful gust. With the Word on your lips, you ascend the stone stairway into Upper Cathedral Ward.

"No, the arm of Yahweh is not too short ta save, nor His ear too dull ta her, but yer guilty deeds have made a gulf between you and yer god. Yer sins have made Him hide His face from ye so as not ta hear ye, since yer hands are stained with blood and yer fingers with guilt. Yer lips utter..."

Writhing on the ivy-touched wall of a small, semicircular plaza, what looks like an overgrown fetus eyes you.

Your monologue peters out. With a slight tilt of its malformed head, the thing begins pulling itself towards you, leaving a viscous trail that glistens like oil in the overgrown moonlight.

"Stop," you say. It doesn't, not until four bayonets pin its unmoving corpse to the stones.

With a frown, you ascend further until you reach a metal gate facing a bridge. While the architecture maintains the themes you've seen at ground level, this place seems unfathomably older, broken down and partially reclaimed by the many-armed trees that coil through the lukewarm night.

"Is that all?" you shout. "You think some little gobshite fresh out o' his second trimester is gonna stop me?"

Judging by the two tall men stomping their way across the bridge, apparently not.

The leading one staggers back from the salvo of bayonets you bury in his chest. The one behind him lowers his stance to rush you, then lowers it all the way to the ground due to the two knives sticking out the back of his head. To his credit, the first one makes a spirited effort to continue his advance, at least until another bayonet rather dramatically deviates his septum.

When you pass his body, you notice that the lantern he was carrying is covered with eyes. They turn to look at you until you crush them with your heel.

Two more fetuses lope towards you. You squish them as well, because you are a giver.

The end of the bridge leads to the base of another lengthy staircase, decorated with the standard Yharnam Chic of creepy statues and coffins. There's also a lantern, which really ties the whole thing together. You reach down to light it, then straighten up and assess the situation.

A massive, stately brick building dominates the skyline, covered with more awkward bumps and protrusions than Maxwell's face during his teen years. Light flows faintly from just-visible torches within, but that might not mean anything considering how good Yharnamites are at keeping things on fire for a really long time.

Now that you've found your groove, you get back to your proclaiming on the way up the steps.

"Yer lips utter lies, yer tongues murmur wickedness. No one makes upright accusations or pleads sincerely. All rely on empty words, utter falsehood, conceive trouble and give birth ta evil."

A small horde of fetuses greet you at the top of the stairs and, in short order, you learn two facts about them: they're slow as balls and not very effective as improvised flails.

Oddly enough, a sizable group of them to your right pay you absolutely no mind, instead focusing entirely on the massive shape of the Grand Cathedral in the near distance. Still, they're horrible abominations and thus you violently smush them.

You didn't make the rules, you just enforce them with entirely reasonable amounts of gusto.

Eileen's reappeared when you turn around, leaning against the beautifully-wrought gates to the structure's interior. "There's an open door clockwise from here," she says, pointing in that direction. "There was a man guarding it. He didn't do his job very well."

"They just don't make goons like they used ta."

Eileen trails behind as you make your way over to yet another stairway. Near the base, a gang of crows bristle give you the stink-eye, which you're pretty sure is their default facial expression. You point to the massive pile of dead whatsits behind you.

"Glurk," says the biggest one in what you choose to believe is an appreciative tone. They ooze their way towards their squishy smorgasbord as you two enter the building.

You have just enough time to register the sound of rapid-onset calamity before a pair of figures wobble into the room and smash into the wall in a frenzy. From the top of yet another stairway, which doesn't even sound like a word to you anymore, you watch a gangly, hooded man with what's either tentacles or a very active beard sticking out of his chin wrestle with an armed Hunter in a streamlined version of Lumnia's garb.

Their welcome party sucks.

[] Intervene

[] See where this goes
-[] Take bets

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

For someone apparently made of sticks and questionable facial hair, the hooded man is doing quite well for himself, cutting off the Hunter's escape routes and keeping the fight at point-blank range. On the inside, the former's physical strength is just too much. If the Hunter doesn't get a second wind or some help soon, this is going to get ugly for him in a hurry.

Luckily, you're here to save the day.

"Left hook's there all day! Body shots!" you call out. While your new student doesn't follow your advice, he does shoot you a perplexed look that gives his gangly foe an opening to slam him into a wall. The Marquess of Queensberry would be ashamed of this performance.

"Turn 'im. Right hand on the break. That's it! Where's the body work?"

"Anderson," says Eileen disapprovingly.

"Fine," you grumble. You plod into the clinch, where your charge's ass continues to be thoroughly kicked, and pull them apart with a confused grunt on one side and eldritch warble on the other. "Break it up, break it up. Ought ta take a point from the both of-"

Before you can finish admonishing, the hooded man clamps onto your shoulders with his distended hands. With a screech, the top of his hood begins to bulge unsettlingly before a pale while tentacle bursts through, wobbling menacingly in the air.

So you nut him in the face.

With a sound like an egg hitting a plate of calamari at Mach 2, the thing collapses to the floor in a pile of discolored blood, rags, and regret. You stomp it a few times for good measure until it stops twitching.

"And that," you say, scraping your boots on the floor to remove giblets, "is how ye do it."

The Hunter looks at you, looks at the thing, looks at Eileen, looks behind him, then offers a very conflicted-sounding "thank you." He still seems a bit shaken up, breathing heavily.

"I," he coughs, before continuing in a deeper voice, "am very grateful, sir, but I have many, many questions."

"And I've got answers. I'm Father Alexander Anderson and she's Eileen."

"Charmed."

"We ransacked the Grand Cathedral, interrogated a vicar, and carved our way through yer forces in a storm o' righteous vengeance. We're here ta smash yer false god, burn down yer foul works, and salt the remains."

He gives you a rather credible impression of a fish.

You shrug. "The key ta a good workin' relationship is honest communication."

Without breaking eye contact, he takes two steps back, then tries to turn and run, which might have worked had Eileen not circled around him while he was still trying puzzle out exactly how fucked he is. He only goes up to her shoulders and, if the shivering is any indication, feels quite a bit smaller at the moment.

"Sir," she says before you can start your own spiel, "I have buried many, many friends, two of them on this very night. Very recently, I learned that your Choir was responsible for a good number of those deaths. You fed them to that coward from Cainhurst. Were it not for the fact that you are still useful, I would have peeled the skin from your face and cut out your tongue before you had a chance to scream.

"Tell us everything we need to know and you will not suffer."

Eileen's mask looks fit to split open and devour him at any moment. You realize she's been holding this in since your talk with Rosemary. Poor fucker.

You hear faint slithering and catch sight of a familiar invertebrate on his wrist. Before you can grab it or call a warning, the writhing panoply erupts, blasting Eileen into the nearby wall with a worryingly organic crash. As you involuntarily flinch back, he fills his hand, and a gunshot scores your desperate tackle.

He's limp when you land, two clean holes on opposite sides of his head.

Eileen's groaning on the wall, the floor is slick with dead man and dead thing, and you can hear the scattershot rumble of approaching footsteps.

This isn't fun anymore.

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You grit your teeth hard enough to send up sparks and give the Hunter's unmoving body a vicious kick.

"Suicide's a fuckin' sin, pissant."

Some scorching invective from Eileen brings you back to reality. Health assessment now, irrational and ultimately unsatisfactory revenge on inanimate object later. You rush over to her side, only to get knocked nearly off your feet by an agitated sweep of her arm.

"I'm fine. I'm fine, you great oaf. Just give me some space."

Recognizing that regeneration is no excuse for being gung-ho with your body parts, you oblige. She fishes in her coat as the footsteps grow closer, seemingly from multiple directions. Once she's found the blood vial she was looking for, you stick your head out the doorframe to survey the situation.

The windowed hallway beyond stretches far in either direction. Through one of said windows, you spy a cavernous foyer, dominated by thick pillars and a chandelier that might as well have "will fall at a dramatically-appropriate time, quite possibly on somebody's head" written on it in impact font. A handful of hooded men, numbers indeterminate, scuttle towards your position from the lower level. Annoying, but not a cause for worry.

The four massive wolf-men flanking them, however...

You lower yourself as much as you can and scoot to allow Eileen room to join you. She's quite spry for having just been soundly biffed by a kraken-in-a-can.

"You good?" you whisper.

"I'm fine. Just lost my cool."

"Right, then. I'm dropping that."

"What?"

Your bayonet's sheared through the chandelier's thin chain before the question mark's made it to your ear. The overweight ornament fulfills its obvious purpose with a delightful crunch, taking out two hooded men and one of the wolves. The remaining rugs-to-be scan the room in a blur of motion before looking directly at your position. You can almost hear their muscles tensing, the tile cracking beneath them as they prepare to jump.

"I'll take the fuzzballs if ye'll take the sonofafuck."

One of the beasts cannons into you mid-sentence like a semi-truck made of shag carpet, taking out a solid chunk of masonry in the process. Eileen shoves her blades into its side before disappearing and, in the resulting confusion, you replace its windpipe and femoral artery with bayonets.

Its piercing blue eyes take a surprising amount of time to dim, and when you kick it away through the gap it made, you note the ragged hole in its brainpan that neither you nor Eileen inflicted.

The remaining two thunder towards you, tearing up chunks of the floor as they close in on you. Unfortunately, they chose to take the long way rather than join their friend, putting a rather long and narrow hallway between you and them while also lining them up for convenient lasering.

The one in front, which unfortunately had its mouth open, goes down almost immediately, while the second one takes enough fire to nearly melt the flesh from its face before collapsing at your feet, smoldering and smoking in decidedly non-appetizing fashion.

You remind yourself that Yumie isn't Korean and thus your planned joke is not only culturally insensitive, which you could live with by itself, but also inaccurate.

On the floor, Eileen's felled another three brainmunchers. The other two circle her warily, weaving complex patterns with their hands and keeping her directly between them while she struggles to normalize her breathing. You're not sure she was ever built for extended fights, but her age hasn't helped.

She's still moving well, thankfully, and the bastards aren't pressing the advantage. She'l be alright oh bloody hell there's a fifth one.

You don't have time to bring the club to bear before the previously-unseen wolf tackles you through the now-exploded window. The two of you land a level down, right in the midst of Eileen's little skirmish. You'd slap yourself for getting blindsided if your arms weren't presently pinned to the ground by several hundred pounds of angry canine.

With a grunt, Eileen shanks it through the throat, but before you can establish your footing, your gangly friends make their move. Arcane light bursts from their hands and slams into the two of you. Your limbs refuse to move despite your best efforts, bound by translucent wisps of heathen magic that, so help you God, somebody's getting burned at the stake for.

One of the two hangs back, still wary, while the other approaches you in the same fashion as the one you PRIDE FC'd earlier and clamps onto your shoulders. Without the ability to properly shift your weight, there's no point in trying to headbutt this one.

But they forgot to lock your jaw.

The thing shrieks as you bite into its face, flesh and bone and ichor crunching between your teeth like the world's most vile Cornish hen. Your limbs now free, you spit its own face in its face before smashing the staggering abomination's head into paste with the club.

You turn and grin at the other one, lips and teeth discolored and bits of skull still dripping from them. You're pretty sure that if it had testicles, they'd be somewhere in its chest cavity by now.

It turns to run, second-guesses itself, and loses its head to Eileen's blades before it has time to process the colossal mistake it made in losing focus.

The two of you sit down and breathe deeply, surrounded by the corpses of blokes with hairy testicles for faces and werewolves with bloody great holes in their think-meats that were apparently pre-existing conditions. You look down and realize you're sitting on the torn remains of a banner; it must have been hanging from the chandelier or the sides of the upper section. You can only make out "PELA RECITAL" on the largest scrap.

"How's that for a story, eh?" you ask your companion. She holds up a finger and peels off her mask, taking great gulping breaths.

"Just be sure," she huffs after a time, "you mention that I saved your clumsy ass twice after you got outsmarted by dogs."

"Hey, I had ta eat one o' these eggheads for ye. Ye wanna see what they taste like?"

She just smiles in return, and this time offers no resistance when you help her to her feet. She keeps a hand on your shoulder as the two of you walk towards the towering green doors that, if your internal compass isn't completely fucked, lead back towards the building's front gate.

"Never thought I'd get old, Anderson," she mutters. "It's hard."

"Happens ta all of us eventually."

"No," she sighs, putting a little more weight on you, "not all of us."

To your annoyance, the doors refuse to budge. Once you're sure Eileen's stable on her feet, you step back and aim the club after a perfunctory knock.

"Hello?" you hear. "Are you human?"

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[Tricia]

Finally, someone with reasonable standards.

"Yes, all barkin', bayin', and bloody beasts have been slain. Would ye mind openin' this thing? There's probably a lever somewhere; we've got a crusade of righteous smiting to get on with."

"No, that's for the front gate. One second."

A series of bangs and crashes rings out from behind the doors, followed by the familiar Yharnam sound of a ridiculous number of locks disengaging. Eileen rests against the nearest wall, looking thankful for the continued reprieve.

Finally, the doors swing ever-so-slightly outwards. You catch sight of a thin person of indeterminate gender just before they slam them closed again.

"Bloody hell, you're the lunatic that's been ruining everything," you hear.

"The same. And this is my co-lunatic, Eileen."

"Good evening," she says.

"We're human, though. That was the deal, wasn't it? Come on, be a good chap and let us in."

You hear tapping feet.

"What happens if I don't?" they ask.

"Well, I'd probably just explode the doors with this here laser I scavenged from the head of the giant-arse abomination I killed and then beat yer face in until ye said ye're sorry."

More tapping.

"Fuck it, it's not like you could make things any worse."

Eileen gives you a glare before you can advise them not to underestimate you. She knows you too well.

They reopen the doors and you give your internal compass a gold star; you are, indeed, right back at the front entrance. Through the gate, you can see the murder of crows from before, which considering their general apathy is really more of a negligent homicide, going to town very slowly one the smorgasbord you left them. The room itself has all the fixin's: creepy hooded statues, circular designs on the floor just itching to ravage someone's shins, and some tasteful drapes hanging from the partially-open ceiling.

The lever taunts you from just before the gate.

Your host, whom you notice appears to be swaying slightly, is covered in splotches of dust and scrapes on their few bits of exposed skin. The cap on their head is torn and ragged enough to reveal close-cropped blonde hair and slightly bloodshot eyes. Once you're in, they chance a look through the doors while Eileen seats herself on the stairs that serve as the only other exit.

"Left a bit of a mess, didn't you?" they say before closing and re-locking them. "I really liked that chandelier."

"Don't think of it as a mess, think of it as an opportunity."

"To do what?"

"I dunno. Come up with a new aesthetic and bond with yer mates?"

"Gonna be hard, that, considering they're splattered all over the foyer."

Before you can quip back, they extend a finger, pull a bottle from behind a statue, and drain a good portion. "'s not blood," they say, wiping their lips halfheartedly. "Wine. The good stuff. Got it for practically nothing once the whole town got hooked on blood."

You shake your head when offered, as does Eileen. They shrug and drain the lot before letting the bottle roll morosely into a corner. With a sigh, they take a seat against the aforementioned statue and lean their head back.

"This isn't all your fault, to be fair. Maybe eighty, ninety percent, yeah, but they were already mad. You killing the Lesser Amygdala and the Bloody Crow just set them off. I mean," they continue, pulling another bottle from nowhere, "they shoved the phantasms into their own heads. I don't care how screwed you think you are, who does that?"

Another pull. A good portion of it winds up on their robes. They look like they're starting to cry.

"You know the phantasms, right? Little slug things. Bishop Euthyphro, he had the idea. 'Put the familiars of the Great Ones in our minds so we may better know the will of Ebrietas. Her wisdom will guide us through this trial.' People's brains kept breaking when they talked to that thing, so obviously the solution was to cram those things into our skulls. And they bought it, too. Most of 'em, anyway."

You open your mouth to ask for clarification, only to be rather forcefully shushed.

"I'm pouring my fucking heart out here. You don't get to talk right now."

"Just wanted ta say we found one guy with his head on straight. Skinny chap, about yea high."

"That'd be Evan. What happened to him?"

"We helped him win a fight, then he shot himself in the head when we tried ta question 'im."

"He fucking would," they grumble. "Should have had the good sense to run right when Euthyphro pulled that idea out of his ass, like I did. The chickenshit shall inherit the earth."

You've thrown off their rhythm enough that they just sit in silence, taking slower drinks with the apparent intent of savoring it.

"So the tentacle things were Euthyphro and the other idiots. What about the wolves?"

"I told them. I told them. It was my job, you know?"

"I didn't know."

"I studied the phantasms. All the different species. 'Official Phantasm Researcher Gale,' that was my job. None of them are intelligent. These things are just relays between us and Ebrietas, and not very good ones at that. Their only independent instincts are the pursuit of brains afflicted by extended exposure to the Great Ones. Shoving one in your head won't beam Ebrietas' thoughts into yours, it'll just let the little bastard eat your brain and pilot you to eat everyone else's. We knew that. This isn't even the first time someone's tried it."

"And the wolves?"

"I'm getting to that. Removing that part of the brain without allowing a phantasm to replace it basically serves as a lobotomy. People afflicted by the," they give a pair of massive air quotes, "'plague' suddenly lose the willpower to fight it off and they succumb."

"That is all kinds of fucked up."

Gale shrugs. You turn towards Eileen, who seems fairly well recovered but has yet to replace her mask, and point to the open area behind her.

"So what's up there?"

The bottle stops halfway to Gale's mouth, and while they have the presence of mind to just set it down rather than let it fall, you can tell it was a close call.

"You don't know? I thought that was why you wanted to kill us in the first place."

"Don't know what?"

The tears are flowing freely now. Gale's next sigh peters out into a long, drawn-out "fuck."

"I only joined the Choir because they asked. I didn't have any part in this, I just studied the godsdamned phantasms."

You step over to the dribbling figure and shove their head back, forcing them to make eye contact with you. You're almost certain they couldn't possibly lie in this state, but it helps to make sure.

"What. Is. Up. There?"

"That's the Orphanage," they mumble. "The Choir tried to uplift abducted children to create emissaries to Ebrietas. The things outside were the failures."

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[Tricia]

The weird thing is, you're not angry. Anger implies irrationality, heightened aggression, an inability to properly articulate your thoughts. You are one-hundred percent calm.

"Well. Alright then. Ye might want ta go somewhere else really fast."

Gale whimpers. They may have pissed themselves.

"Now."

That seems to bring their chickenshit instincts to the forefront. They take off like a shot in an impressive display of drunken coordination, avoiding the mulched remains of their comrades with mixed success. You take a deep breath and fill your hands with steel, muttering indistinct prayers to yourself. Your feet are so heavy that you're almost surprised the stone steps don't crumble beneath them.

"Anderson."

Oh dear, you've gone and crushed the bayonets in your hand. You've still got plenty, though. Always more when you need them.

"Anderson."

"Eileen," you say, shoving each word through your teeth, "please get out of my way."

She meets your gaze and does not wilt.

"Don't do anything rash, Anderson."

"Wouldn't dream of it. I'm one-hundred percent calm."

That seems to satisfy her. Or maybe not. Doesn't matter; she's fallen in behind you either way. You know what you're doing.

A sickly blue humanoid creature watches you in the corridor above the stairs, its pinprick eyes the sole discernible features on its distended, undulating head. As you approach, it turns and scurries away into the room beyond. Neither you nor Eileen make a move to intercept it.

The Orphanage is a massive garden, lined with bulbous, man-sized flowers. The creature, along with another of its ilk, eyes you from the center, surrounded by thick columns. Moonlight streams in from the open roof, highlighting the oily sheen of their skins. They're somehow both gangly and bloated, visible ribs contrasting sharply with rounded bellies.

As you watch, the many bulbs bloom, depositing more and more of the things until there's a veritable legion of them, staring at you as one. Amniotic fluid drips from their limbs and you hear a faint, scratchy rumbling in the air, like a choked-up engine or a sick animal. You spread your arms wide, adopting a reasonably non-threatening pose in defiance of every screaming neuron in your brain. You are one-hundred percent calm.

"If any o' you understand me, give me a sign. Anything."

One of them, standing alone in the center and dry as a bone, makes the slightest motion. In near-unison, the rest begin to march, arms outstretched as they approach in piecemeal rhythm. The nearest one grabs gently onto your arm, and there's a second of hope.

Its grip turns crushing. There's nothing in its eyes, not before or during or after you take its head off with a single swing. The rest don't break step, and the thing in center just watches.

No bombast this time. No frivolity, no unnecessary drama. One blade per head.

Boss Battle: Celestial Emissary​

They don't collapse when you hit them. They sag, as though some vital spark is sliding slowly out through the fresh holes in their heads. When you hit the one in the center, its body swells unevenly, bones lengthening and skin stretching until it simply bursts and showers the dead garden in milk-white ichor. The few that made it through your volley die with it, all without a sound.

Prey Slaughtered​

There will be time for consecration later. There have to be more of the Choir. The assholes with tentacles for brains couldn't have been all of them. You think Eileen might be saying something. Doesn't matter.

No other doors. There's a lantern, though. You light it, and in its amethyst glow you see another foyer through a nearby window. You rear back and destroy it, leaping in with blades drawn and crushing another of the "failures" beneath your feet. Your glasses nearly fly off your head as you cast your gaze about for any trace of the fuckers responsible.

You're on the upper floor of the Grand Cathedral. There's nothing here but corpses, gorging flies, and the still, silent form of Vicar Amelia down below. Your bayonets clatter to the ground and you take deep, heaving breaths.

"No. No, come on, no. There's gotta be some of 'em here. Someone's gotta answer for this. This isn't funny."

They're hiding somewhere nearby, right? They managed to slip past you through that window you couldn't open without breaking. They're somewhere in a corner, knowing full well what they've done. Maybe in that room back there they couldn't have gotten to without breaking the glass.

"Don't fuck with me. This isn't how it's supposed ta go. This isn't fuckin' fair."

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