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

[Tricia]

You can make out a sizable cave mouth above the scuttling horde, ripe with the promise of great adventure, kickass loot, and possibly a metric fuckton of very fat, very happy bats.

"That looks promisin'. Mind backtrackin' a bit?"

"We're following your lead," Steffon answers.

Whether due to general apathy or being bloated to Hindenburgian proportions, the blood-drinking beasts give you no trouble as you pass. One of them does have a go when you stray too close, but a quick elbow sends it wobbling back to safety. As you reach the cave and step deeper into its narrow entrance, you hear and feel sporadic thunder within that sends visible ripples through the backed-up blood.

The source becomes apparent when a stumpy beast tries to round a bend at a dead sprint, runs into a wall, and gets effectively vaporized by a torrent of bullets. The damp cave air brims with the smell of cordite, preceding a mountainous, scarred figure seemingly held together by countless ammunition belts.

He has to be at least a hundred and fifty kilos, lugging a Gatling gun one-handed with apparent ease. His own serrated spear dwarfs Steffon's to a comical, cold-day-in-the-locker-room degree, and he flicks the heavy weapon between configurations in impatient fashion. Djura and Steffon gently nudge you behind them before approaching him slowly.

"Kurt," says Djura, hands up but legs tensed, "let's go home. There's no need for this."

"You gonna run?" the big man rumbles.

"No, of course not."

"You should."

The gun's many barrels whine into motion and the Powder Kegs each leap in a different direction as the weapon roars. Kurt's strength is ridiculous; he's not only withstanding the recoil with one hand, he's tracking his targets with impossible stability.

If he could just pick one and stick with it, you'd be worried. As is, he's constantly switching between them whenever one gains ground. While they're struggling to close the gap, Kurt can't land a clean shot.

You can, though.

Your first bayonet broadside sends him down to a knee, but you can't ready another volley or the club before you're also dodging heavy fire. He may not have the sense to fight at his best, but he does have enough to back into a narrow, rocky section of the cave, preventing any sort of flanking maneuvers and protecting him from Djura and Steffon's return fire.

Unfortunately for him, he's still a big fuckin' target. Djura lunges forward, drawing the stream of fire away from you long enough to bring the club to bear. You plant the beam in the middle of his chest and hear bad things happen to his skeleton beneath the boom. This time, he goes all the way down, and you rush forward to polish him off.

Before you can get there, you see him jab something into his thigh and his left arm lurches back into action, bringing the Gatling gun around to ventilate your torso.

"Blood vials are bullshit," you gurgle as you hit the ground. You really need to ask Djura what those bullets are made of one of these days. Luckily, he's too preoccupied with you to notice that Djura's reached melee range, and even Kurt's monstrous durability can't stand up to the old man's Stake Driver.

You swear the earth shakes when his corpse hits the ground. Though he vanishes like the others, his weapon conveniently stays behind along with his ammunition.

What a generous guy.

"You alright?" asks Steffon as he approaches. You attempt to give him a thumbs-up, but are thwarted by the necessary muscle groups still having holes in them.

"I'm fine; just gimme a minute." You manage to sit up and prop yourself against a nearby wall. "Thing had some kick."

Steffon's reply, no doubt pithy and wise, gets cut off by a very familiar screech. You attempt to scoot back into the more open section of the cave and Steffon helpfully drags you along.

Djura, however, stays put, and by the time the big bastard's massive neck flaps round the corner, he's got the barrels up to speed.

You only get to see the oddly-human face for a split second before Djura buries it in bullets. It stumbles back around the corner and the old man follows.

You can't see the rest, but he keeps shooting for what's probably an unnecessary amount of time. The gun is bright red by the time he comes back into view and barks for Steffon to follow him.

"Sit tight," says the younger Keg with a pat on the shoulder. You consider utilizing the fact that you've recovered enough to raise a middle finger, but figure he wasn't trying to be condescending.

By the time they come back, you're more-or-less ready to roll. Djura walks past you without a word, while Steffon stops to hand you a bizarre club not unlike your own.

"Found it in the back. Thought you might be interested," he says before hurrying after his elder.

Rather than the elegant craftsmanship of Gehrman's work, this thing looks like someone ripped off a small Amygdala's arm and folded several joints into a single striking surface. The weapon's "head" twitches unsettlingly, and when you twist the handle like this, it lashes out at you.

You catch it before it can stab you in your chest and glare at it as it wriggles. "None o' that," you say, and it droops apologetically before you send it off to sleeveland.

You resolve to discuss proper boundaries with it once you have time. For now, you should probably catch up with Djura.

[] You think you saw another path back to the chapel; might as well check it out

[] Go deeper into the city

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[Tricia]

You scurry to reach Steffon, who is maintaining a healthy distance from Djura as the old man stomps forward. You don't blame him; even the fat beasties are giving him space. As the three of you reach the bridge, he leaps into action, landing among the gathered men and laying into them with uncharacteristic fervor.

You and Steffon stay back and watch, occasionally dodging bits of debris. You're pretty sure that was an entire spinal column that just whizzed by your head.

"Is this normal?" you ask your compatriot. "I mean, it's what I do when I'm feelin' down, but I'm not exactly a model o' healthy copin' mechanisms."

"I'm not too surprised, honestly. It was hard seeing Ulrich and Kurt in that state, and Djura knew them far better than I ever did. It's probably best for him to get it all out of his system."

The both of you wince as a particularly unlucky Hunter gets blasted into the creek, then dragged scrabbling back up the steps by the grimacing Powder Keg. The sounds that follow could best be described as Rocky having a go at the meat locker with gardening implements.

"Well," you say, "I think that path up there is a shortcut back ta the chapel. Let's head over and let 'im cool 'is heels."

"Sounds like a plan."

After a short period of further one-sided slaughter, the two of you join Djura on the bridge, making no sudden movements as you approach the panting old man. "You good?" you say once he acknowledges your presence. He offers a nod in return and you lead him across, taking care not to slip in the frankly unnecessary amount of viscera he left behind.

You enter the chapel and make your way down the towering hall, only to stop abruptly when you see a figure leaning against the wall. You consider taking a swing before noting his lack of literal frothing rage. Still, you motion for the Kegs to stay a bit back, both for their sakes and his. Djura still looks a bit twitchy.

The man, lean and long of limb, turns to face you a few steps later, either unsurprised by your presence or playing it off extremely well. His clothing isn't so much ragged as ravaged, trailing off into fluttering scraps in multiple locations. A lit lantern and several pouches dangle from a cord around his waist alongside a long, kris-like blade, which he keeps his hands near as he begins to speak.

"A sane Hunter? A rare sight in this place. Who might you be?"

"I'm Father Alexander Anderson and these are the Powder Kegs, Djura and Steffon. Didn't figure ta find anyone with 'is wits about 'im, neither."

"I am Simon," he says with a bow, "formerly of the Healing Church."

"Wait, you're the Simon?" says a suddenly-lucid Djura, shoving his way forward. "Simon of the Bowblade? I thought you'd died ages ago."

"Not dead, just misplaced." He stretches up to get a better look at the Gatling gun slung over Djura's shoulder. "Are you part of the Oto Workshop? I've never seen weapons like those before."

"They were our predecessors, actually," says Steffon. "It's been quite some time since you vanished."

"Has it? It's difficult to tell in this place. How is the Church these days?"

"It's a hideously corrupt organization that's been usin' eldritch blood ta deceive and manipulate its followers," you reply.

"Good to know some things haven't changed, at least."

[] Talk to Simon
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[Tricia]

You raise an eyebrow.

"Really? Was kinda hopin' they'd started out all heroic and then slowly descended inta villainy in a proper tragic character arc."

"No such luck, I'm afraid," says Simon. "To the best of my knowledge, it's been sinister plotting from day one."

"Points for consistency, I suppose. What were they like back in yer day, more specifically?"

"Most of what I know is second-hand, but I heard word of mass experimentation, entire communities abducted and subjected to bizarre treatments. Some of them were willing; the Church found the crippled and terminally ill and offered them an opportunity, but soon grew hungry for more subjects. Had a whole tower of them by the time a left. My contacts had hints of the treatments' specifics, but nothing terribly useful."

You nod, recalling your own encounters with the Church elite. "So how did ye fit inta all this?"

"Information gathering, mostly. My job was to assess tenuous situations, be they beasts or dissidents, and report back to the Church's martial branch. As a result, I wound up becoming acquainted with several Hunters in tight spots and acquired quite a few favors to cash in. Before you ask, I stopped dealing with dissidents once I caught wind of the Church's actions."

He adjusts his posture slightly, looking for a more comfortable angle, then coughs. "Forgive me; I haven't spoken in a while. No conversation partners, you understand. The door down the hall is open from this side if you wish to rest in the chapel."

"We'll take you up on that," says Steffon. "Got some gear to clean."

The four of you open the doors to find that you have, indeed, discovered a very helpful shortcut. Djura's still breathing a bit heavy, but the tension in his limbs visibly evaporates once he's got a rag and oil in his hands. Steffon gives you the curt nod of someone who's done this before, then offers Simon a tin of water from his mess of supplies. The former Churchman takes it with an appreciative nod.

"If ye don't mind some more pryin'-"

"Oh, no," Simon interrupts, wiping his mouth, "go right ahead. I'm just happy to have someone to talk to who doesn't just scream about blood and try to cut me in half."

"On the subject o' that, how're ye here without bein' bugfuck nuts?"

"Poor decision-making," he says. "One of my contacts told me he'd met with a splinter faction who were willing to divulge information in exchange for some reconnaissance of unexplored territory. When I met with them, something picked me up and, the next thing I knew, I was here." He leans back with a wan smile. "Not my finest hour."

"So what've ye done since? How much ye know about this place?"

"Not as much as I would like. The Nightmare isn't terribly kind to exploration; the Hunters and beasts return to life not long after they're killed, making sustained progress difficult. The one advantage I have is that the food and water I managed to find comes back as well." He points back out the hall, towards where you recently entered. "I have seen enough to learn that the layout of the city is quite similar to the one back in the real world. I determined where the Healing Church's forbidden research hall should be, but there's an issue."

You know he's trying to get you to ask him for clarification to enhance the drama, but you think nothing of it. Guy hasn't gotten to give exposition in ages.

"And what might that be?"

"Ludwig is in the way."

A sharp intake of breath draws your attention to the Powder Kegs, who are staring open-mouthed at Simon. Djura's holding onto the Stake Driver by the tips of his fingers; looks like his reflexes barely saved him from a classic drops-weapon-to-the-floor-in-shock situation.

"The Holy Blade is here?" he says.

"What's left of him, anyway. He's become a horrific beast; I've engaged him twice and had to retreat both times. With you here, though, we may have a chance."

The old man frowns and you can see the tempo of Steffon's scrubbing slow down. The prospect of facing Ludwig isn't one that fills them with confidence, it seems.

"He was one o' the first Church Hunters, wasn't he?" you ask Simon. The man's eyebrows rise.

"They couldn't have forgotten that much about Ludwig since I've been gone, could they?"

"They haven't," says Steffon in a more hushed tone than usual. "Father Anderson isn't a local."

"Really? This sounds like a story I'd love to hear."

As it turns out, it is. The ragged man is thoroughly enraptured by your tale of daring, explosions, extreme violence, and the LORD's message of peace and brotherhood. He shows a bit of skepticism at your thrashing of a monster from beyond reality, but the club silences his doubts.

Unfortunately, you have no such convenient way to prove that you're chums with Ebrietas, even with the Kegs' testimony. You can't blame him for thinking you're full of it, though, especially since you might have added a few meters of height to the goatwolfgorilla and a few more killer finishing moves to the Bloody Crow in your retelling.

"Quite a tale, Father Anderson," he says once you're done. Djura and Steffon appear to have psyched themselves back up at this point and look ready to hit the town really, really hard.

[] Talk to Simon
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[Tricia]

You return to your feet, making a couple of quick hops to shake the tension from your legs. This place is murder on the calves. After some huddled tactical talk, you head back down the hall in a diamond formation, you in the lead and Simon in the rear. Once outside, the Kegs take wide positions so as to give themselves and your new compatriot plenty of room to shoot.

"What's Ludwig like?" you ask Simon. "I imagine ye don't get ta be 'The Holy Blade' without bein' a proper badass."

"In his prime, Ludwig was a swordsman without peer. I mean this quite literally; some of the others joked that the only reason he even went on the Hunt was because human sparring partners fell too quickly. They even tried pitting him against four or five Hunters at once until the medical wing complained that they were running out of space."

"What, he didn't know how ta hold back?"

"He was holding back."

You didn't notice at first, but your pace has slowed quite a bit. Djura and Steffon have even closed in, ostensibly eager to hear more of the legend.

"Ludwig was a brilliant, compassionate, incredible man. I feel honored to have known him."

"Lot o' past tense, there," you say.

"He wandered away one day. Told the Church his 'guiding moonlight' was calling him elsewhere. Perhaps he found his way here on his own, or perhaps he was drawn here in death. Either way, the thing below the Research Hall is all that remains."

All four of you have stopped at this point. Steffon casually punts an inquisitive bloodlicker away without moving his head.

"Imagine the top half of a man," says Simon with the requisite hand gestures, "but stretched to a grotesque degree; the chest, the arms, even the head, distorted beyond recognition. Now picture it atop the body of a horse, but one created by someone who knew only that a horse possesses some number of legs and hooves. It is massive, riddled with extraneous limbs, and extraordinarily strong. To make matters worse, it must be engaged within an enclosed space that it can traverse with astounding speed."

You feel somewhat disrespectful for only being able to imagine the product of countless generations of centaur inbreeding.

"How d'ye even know it's Ludwig?" you ask.

"It still has his sword, overgrown to match its master's new size. The weapon was as much a part of Ludwig as his limbs were and it obeyed only him. I doubt the beast is even aware of the blade, but it remains at its side."

There's a moment of grim silence among your companions.

"Hey, it's not every day ye get ta beat up a legend," you say to Djura with a friendly elbow. "Ye've got a golden opportunity right here."

"Father Anderson, I pride myself in having had the patience to not exploit your regenerative capabilities for petty stress relief during our time together. Now is not the time to test that," he replies.

And now Ludwig's gone and ruined your carefully-maintained camaraderie. Motherfucker's going down.

"Sooooooo," you say to Simon by way of extremely smooth segue, "how's he fight?"

"It," he replies, "is highly aggressive and deceptively mobile. It's not hit me clean yet but I've seen stone crumble underneath its blows. The most difficult aspect of the fight, however, is its size. Combined with that constant motion, it's nearly impossible to hit vitals that aren't buried beneath a mound of flesh, assuming they're even in their proper places." He shows you one of his arrows, sleekly-designed and razor-sharp, and motions towards his Bowblade. "Relatively small arena, no clear targets, and not enough firepower to cause lasting damage. For the sake of my pride, I consider it simply a poor stylistic matchup."

"Impressive assessment," says Steffon.

"I was in intelligence for a reason," says Simon with a slight grin.

[] Continue talking to Simon
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[Tricia]

With that, your squad gets back in motion, hopping down into the creek bed and strolling past the bloodlickers, who by this point know better than to get involved.

"I've got an offer for ye," you say to Simon as you pass through a tunnel.

"Oh?"

"I mentioned that we got here with some help from Ebrietas. Thing is, we can leave the same way; once we've taken care o' all this shite, how'd ye feel about headin' back ta the real world with us?"

The tunnel runs smack into a gate, flanked by bizarre stone outcroppings. Two dogs, almost identical to the ones you encountered before, round the corner at a dead sprint. You're pretty sure they were gunning for you, but Simon kills the one in the lead and Djura takes out the one behind it before you can properly plot their approach vector.

True to its name, Simon's sword has split into a full-sized bow, its undulating blade revealed to be two set side-by-side. A thick wire runs from one to the other; with a metal frame and a string of that size, the draw must be out of this world. You look closely at Simon's upper body and notice for the first time how massive his back is.

"That would be very generous of you," he says as he snaps the weapon back to its standard form. You have no idea where the wire went. "I think it is something best discussed later, however; wouldn't do to get ahead of ourselves."

A short tower rests on its side against the gated wall, which isn't nearly wide enough to actually bar the way. You're aware of Yharnam's propensity for shortcuts, but they weren't even trying on this one.

Piles of emaciated bodies await you around the wall, stripped of clothing, hair, and skin. You can't even count them; they're stacked meters-high at points, intertwined, blood-soaked limbs impossible to follow back to their owners.

Some of them are moving.

A very familiar waddling sound draws your attention away, revealing a pair of crows. Your companions make moves to strike, but you signal for them to stand down. Instead, you point the crows towards the dog carcasses, taking great care to point out the level of violence inflicted on them. The closer crow eyes you for a few seconds, beak flicking back and forth from the dogs to your massive assortment of weapons, then warbles to its companion. Two more crows plop down from overhead and follow them towards the ex-dogs.

"How did you do that?" Simon asks.

"Practice."

You don't get a chance to elaborate before a Hunter slides into sight, and he doesn't get a chance to even slightly menace you before Simon's put an arrow through his head.

"Practice," he says by way of explanation.

"So what's these guys' deals?" you ask, sweeping an arm towards what's either a mass grave or the most intense orgy of all time. The moaning's pretty ambiguous.

"Normal citizens drawn into the Nightmare; they've lost the will to even move at this point. That's my best guess, at least. They could be castoffs from the Research Hall or something else entirely." He turns to watch your new avian compatriots go to town on the dog corpses. "The crows have a go at them, sometimes, and sometimes the Hunters will vent their frustrations on them. There's no helping them. I've tried."

You lead the way up a nearby ladder, then crest the subsequent slope. A massive stretch of creek sprawls before you, dotted by half-sunk architecture and more of those worryingly-organic rock structures. You hop down until there's just a ladder between you and the bed, only to be stopped by Simon.

"One moment." He raises a finger, presumably testing the wind, and then lays a pair of arrows beside his feet. He carefully nocks one, aims almost directly upwards, and sends it sizzling into the sky. It's still rising when he looses the second one, aimed further downstream.

He returns his blade to his side, then raises his fingers. Five, four, three, two...

There's a meaty thunk somewhere behind the bloated stone. A enormous axeman, the spitting image of the one guarding the Cathedral, staggers into view before collapsing, only the very end of the nock protruding from his head. His fall coincides with the second impact, which fells a hitherto-unseen twin wielding a cannon.

You and the Kegs give him a round of applause, prompting a theatrical bow.

"Everything here comes back after it's killed," he says. "It took me ages to perfect that." He puts on a haggard smile. "You have to find something to keep yourself occupied, after all."

This time, he leads the way through the creek bed. Djura stops to investigate fallen gunman's weapon.

"The Chuch had a decent idea, but they never could shrink it down. Had to do with the powder they were using," he explains. "They had an inefficient mix, meaning they needed a firing chamber of this size just to get enough energy behind the ball to do damage."

At Simon's prompting, Steffon offers him a look at his own cannon. The bowman nods appreciatively, then hands it back.

You take a right turn per Simon's instructions while he steps away to potshot a hunched figure lying in wait. He rejoins you as you reach another small chapel and light the lantern within. A stairway, blocked off by a makeshift barricade of rock and detritus, leads downwards.

"That's a path back to where we encountered those crows," Simon explains. "I thought it best to seal it up to make this place a better refuge. Now's the time to prepare; Ludwig is not far beyond this doorway."

[] Talk to
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[Tricia]

There's no resting this time. All weapons are loaded and accounted for; however many asses Ludwig has at this point, you're prepared to kick all of them.

A weak, rhythmic clanking noise greets you as you re-enter the heady air, emanating from beside a capsized tower. Closer inspection reveals a small gate surrounded by yet more "bodies," one of which is beating on the bars with all the strength it can muster. You can almost hear the bones in its arm splinter as it smashes the emaciated limb into the unyielding metal.

"I tried to move him to the other side once," says Simon. "It looked at me, then started crawling back to its original spot. That's all it knows to do now."

More and more, flailing weakly, line the narrow stone tunnel beyond. Simon's pace slows as your group reaches a tall brick entryway, unusual in that it is both intact and approximately perpendicular to the ground.

"Ludwig is inside. Watch your footing and do not let it corner you. If you lose sight of it, be sure to check above you in case it's crawling on the ceiling. Do not attempt to engage at close range from the sides or the rear."

"Anythin' else?" you and Djura say at the same time. He uses a "g" instead of your customary apostrophe, though.

"It's faster than you think."

The entryway opens into a spacious room littered with bodies. Its support pillars are embedded in the walls, leaving the floor free of inorganic obstacles. A small stair leads to a raised section with a side doorway that presumably leads further in. You can feel the vague hints of Yharnam's traditional floor designs through your boots, but the blood is so deep you can't confirm.

It's a perfect place to fight a giant monster in a climactic showdown. All it's missing is the giant monster.

"Ahh, ahh, please...help us...ah..." a thin voice interrupts before your squad has a chance to reconnoiter this shit up. One of the bodies is pulling itself towards you, wheezing with exertion. "An unsightly beast...a great terror looms!"

You all pause to stare at it, realizing the gravity inherent in that many ellipses.

"Ahh...Ludwig the Accursed is coming. Have mercy...have mercy upon us..."

Something Simon mentioned springs to mind. If you lose sight of it...

As one, the four of you crane your necks upwards. Sorry, went off to grab some popcorn; what's going hoooooly shit.

The thing twists in midair and crashes to the ground at the far end of the room, sending out such tremors that small waves in the blood lap at your trousers. It's not any better-looking right-side up.

Simon pretty much nailed the description, save for the fact that it apparently has a second fucking head that's basically a toothed pillar of flesh and eyes. The main head, caught somewhere between humanoid and equine, gnashes misshapen teeth as its clawed hands slowly curl and uncurl. Its lower portion is a nightmare amalgam of body parts, limbs sprouting seemingly at random from its sides and twitching as the menagerie somehow maintains its colossal form's balance.

It screams, and the earth shakes.

BOSS BATTLE: LUDWIG THE ACCURSED
​

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

There is, theoretically, a level of unit cohesion that would allow a squad to function perfectly in sync despite the presence of a colossal insult to both biology and common decency. You have not reached that level.

The room absolutely erupts before Ludwig has even had a chance to finish screaming. The cannon's boom drowns out the whirr of the Gatling gun and the hiss of arrows. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, you yank out a salvo of explosive bayonets and take aim at the pulsating mound of stink eye.

Simon wasn't kidding; this thing can cover an enormous amount of distance in an instant. The cannonball, aimed at its chest, lands a grazing blow before slamming into the wall and Djura's shots thud uselessly into its massive rear rather than into its head. Just two of your bayonets connect with their target, the rest foiled by surprisingly-fluid upper-body movement.

The four of you leap in separate directions as a massive overhand right, unhindered by the oncoming fire pouring in, sweeps across the blood-soaked floor, clipping Steffon. At this range, you can make out the festering lumps of flesh surrounding Simon's old shafts, presumably from their earlier encounters.

Steffon's fall is thankfully cushioned by the nearby piles of bodies and he scrambles madly back to his feet as Ludwig rounds on him. Djura, meanwhile, makes a beeline for the rear of the room, ammo belt flopping wildly and occasionally conking him in the jaw. Simon's still plugging away from a nearby corner.

It's definitely gunning for Steffon, though, and you know he's got no chance in close quarters. Luckily, if there's one thing Alexander Anderson does well, it's draw attention.

"Whosoever sheds man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed, ye Seabiscuit-lookin' fuck!"

This does not manage to draw its ire. The laser you rake across its assorted appendages, however, does. It buckles and turns on you with a screech, thumping Steffon with a deformed hoof in the process. The explosion bit deep; you can see muscle and sinew, and even slightly-blackened bone at points.

You anticipate a slower charge; Hell, you'd settle for a stumble or two. Instead, it bears down on you in an instant. Though the tangle of limbs makes diagnosis difficult, you're fairly certain it's using its extraneous appendages to compensate and doing so brilliantly. You have a brief moment of appreciation before it clobbers the shit out of you in an impressive fist-based recreation of your earlier adventure with the boulder.

There's just so fucking much of him, you think, once the customary thoughts of JESUS FUCKING OW FUCK RIP YER NUTS OFF AND SHOVE ONE DOWN EACH O' YER FACE-HOLES subside and you crash into the far wall. He's so fast and has so much shit dangling off of him that the odds of hitting something important are slim and none. That's not even mentioning the defensive instincts and aptitude for improvisation that somehow survived the embiggening.

Oh, hey; from this angle, you can see its sheathed blade, resting atop the blood-soaked cowl on the thing's back. That must mean you're pretty high up. Good thing most of your bones are already broken, or you falling out of your impact crater might be a problem.

As it turns out, you think to yourself in a twisted heap on the ground, your logic was somewhat flawed. You try to ignore the sounds of your everything de-bungling itself and shake off the lingering cobwebs to assess the situation. Djura's reached the corner and gotten enough space to rev the Gatling gun back to speed, while Simon's started picking his shots. Steffon's to your right, as best as you can tell with your neck at an inconvenient angle, and has managed to reload the cannon while Ludwig deals with the Gatling fire.

You might be able to whittle that thing down before you all run out of ammunition. Might.

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You shake your head, now that the muscles necessary for such an action aren't mashed into paste, and focus on Ludwig. Djura and Steffon are doing a solid job of kiting it, as Djura's Gatling barrages give Steffon time to prime his own heavy ordinance. A cannonball crashes into the beast's second head, sending a spray of teeth and ocular giblets into the air. A milky fluid erupts in a spray from the ragged wound and you see the walls sizzle and sputter beneath it.

There's a joke there. You'll have to remember it once you've properly euthanized the bastard.

Rather than abandon its charge at Djura, however, Ludwig launches a brutal hip check that demolishes a sizable chunk of masonry. Though Djura dives out of the way, he winds up stumbling under the falling debris. His situation awareness fails him and, in his haste to get away, he winds up dangerously near his pupil/external voice of reason. The beast rebounds from the wall and shrugs off an arrow just inches from its eye to launch itself at them, its colossal form more than enough to blanket them both.

Its vertical leap defies reason; anything underneath it when it lands is leaving in a bucket. As impressive as its Air Jordan moment is, however, it gives you plenty of time to determine its landing spot. You don't have enough time for a proper incantation, but you do have your favorite four-letter word.

Ludwig crashes down in a peal of thunder. You can see Steffon careening out of the way, but don't see Djura until you look underneath the beast. Rather than dodge, it looks like the old bastard met it on the way down with a Stake Driver shot. Viscera pours over him in irregular spurts from the wound in its belly, and as he staggers out from beneath it, you see that his right arm is, in medical terms, completely fucked.

The fading roar of its impact and the lingering boom of Djura's shot are bolstered by your bellowing "AMEN!" Ludwig doesn't have time to reorient itself or finish Djura off before a swarm of nails and pages buffet it. Its many limbs flail to no effect as the Word settles over it and, in a blinding burst, flares to life.

You can see the barrier warp and deform from the creature's thrashing, but it doesn't need to hold long. You load your freshly-regenerated hands with bayonets and let fly.

There's a sound like a cow getting thrown into a cutlery emporium as your blades meet the wall of flesh, digging down to the handles. Its many legs visibly buckle and it's forced to support itself with one of its hands while the other frantically attempts to pull its new piercings free. Your companions seize the advantage, Steffon dragging the injured Djura to safety and Simon launching arrows into its fresh new wounds.

Ludwig's losing a huge amount of blood at this point and it's not doing itself any favors by yanking the bayonets free. You know its monstrous strength could be enough to break your ward, but it's so desperate to remove the pain that it can't even thrash properly.

Before you can stop yourself, you wonder if the fight is over.

In a smooth motion grossly at odds with its current panic, the beast reaches over its shoulder and pulls its sword free. The luminescent blade, a brilliant green, seems at once insubstantial and impossibly heavy in its gnarled hand. With a grunt rather than a roar, it swings as best it can within your ward's burning confines and rends the barrier asunder.

The pages fall lifelessly to the floor, quickly lost amid the blood, and Ludwig takes powerful breaths. It looks around, seemingly as bewildered as you, before finally noticing the weapon in its hands.

"Aah," he says in a voice so unlike his prior screeching that you're almost certain he's got a backup throat in there somewhere, "you were at my side, all along."

You get the sense that you have an opportunity to finish this in front of you, but what kind of hypocrite would you be if you interrupted his monologue?

He raises the great blade into the air, its light painting the gore-soaked room a sickly green. "My true mentor. My guiding moonlight."

Rather than his usual slouch, he's gone full centaur, humanoid torso standing tall atop his ravaged form. Though his wounds continue to spill blood and other things that shouldn't be on the outside, there's a sense of serenity and poise in his features. You've got one of the greatest swordsmen to ever live standing in front of you, only he's twenty times bigger and stronger than he used to be. Have fun.

BOSS BATTLE: LUDWIG, THE HOLY BLADE

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[Tricia]

Okay, this doesn't have to turn into a legendary battle between two churches' ultimate champions , a fight that could not only shape history but define an era. There's no need for a blood-and-guts brawl against a swordsman without peer, mutated into towering powerhouse with full use of his faculties.

Man, if you weren't worried about babysitting, you'd be all over this like stink on Maxwell. Djura's seriously hurt, though, and you don't have terribly much faith in Simon's ability to take a hit from that blade.

"Stop fuckin' attackin', ye heathen bastard! Ye've got yer mind back, or are ye just a talkin' beast now?!"

Ludwig turns to look at you, teetering ever-so-slightly from his many wounds. You're sure you can come to some kind of understanding, find some elbow grease to help him squeeze out the door, and everything will work out just holyfuckhe'sfast.

The Holy Blade lunges, and this is no wild charge; he covers the distance between you in an instant without overextending himself. You dodge his thrust with little room to spare, stumbling through the gore. He pivots rather more quickly than you'd think possible and brings down an overhead swipe that parts the stone floor with no visible resistance.

His uneven eyes shine a faint green. You're not entirely certain whether they're simply reflecting the blade.

An arrow through the back draws his attention to the other side of the room, where Simon kneels. You just catch sight of Steffon running outside, Djura in tow, though Ludwig seems uninterested in their retreat. He pauses for a moment, seemingly deciding whether to target you or your companion.

This gives you the time you need to make all-important distance. As you fly back, you draw steel and unload once more. Time to see how well he jumps with bayonets instead of ligaments.

There grows an emerald haze in which Ludwig's movements are barely visible. You see the sword glow vibrantly for a split-second before he thrusts it into the ground and a shockwave bursts from it, sending your blades careening into oblivion and generating knee-high waves through the blood.

"Not twice," he says. Before you can think of a suitably-witty rejoinder, he rears back and uncorks a vicious swing that sends what's unmistakably an energy blade hurtling towards you. The blast not only parts the blood, it parts one of your hands, the wall behind you, and some unfortunate bastard in the distance with a Hell of a scream.

You stagger back, fuming. You've been trying to do the sword beam thing for ages without success. You even tried swinging Yumie while she swung her sword one time and nothing. You did have confidence that your plan to have one of Iscariot's larger members swing you while you swung Yumie would have borne fruit, but Heinkel had to go and be a spoilsport about the whole thing.

"Get the prick's arms!" you shout as he slowly advances. Your engagements have given you a solid idea of what you're dealing with; he's got precision that he previously lacked and, judging by the fact that he's cutting the ring off on you with quick sidesteps, a newfound sense of battlefield awareness. At the same time, he's so focused on using his sword that he's abandoned the erratic thrashings that made him so dangerous at close quarters.

You really should have set up hand signals to communicate your assessment with your teammates. Or maybe hamboning?

Ludwig towards over you, nearly within striking distance. The sword twitches ever-so-slightly in his southpaw grip, a series of feints he manages to sell well despite the size involved.

"What," you say with a grin, "no one-liners? No quotin' scripture? Come on, gimme somethin' ta work with."

He does not reply, instead twisting for a blow that you know will be a bitch to dodge. That's another thing, the oft-ignored analytical part of your brain chimes in; he's still prepping those swings as if he didn't have the strength to cut a bus in two without trying.

An arrow buries itself in his left forearm during the windup and, for an instant, you see the sword fall from his clawed fingers. He snatches it in midair, visibly struggling to keep his grip, and whirls to face Simon once more, who is holding up a pair of arrows. Two shots left.

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CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Damaged hand, mild fatigue

Ludwig: Damaged left forearm, damaged legs, countless flesh wounds. Noticeably teetering from blood loss

Simon: Unharmed, but almost out of ammnition

Djura: Severely broken right arm, slight case of shock

Steffon: Tending to Djura

 

[Tricia]

Failing to pay attention to you is a classic and costly blunder, one that has plagued monsters, heretics, and the Iscariot budget department for ages. Ludwig had a compelling reason to look away, sure, but you're not about to let him off the hook.

"Eyes on me, ye horse-faced heathen!"

You're inside Ludwig's reach before he has a chance to respond, lugging a massive club in each hand. The newer one, either asleep or cognizant of the fact that it would be best served not pissing you off at this juncture, makes no effort to stab you in the face. It does, however, do an admirable job of absolutely ruining one of the Holy Blade's surviving legs alongside its older brother.

The sound of bursting bone can't quite drown out Ludwig's scream as he buckles, nearly landing on top of you. You've smashed another one by the time he regains his breath. As the beast struggles to stay upright, surviving knees knocking like a newborn foal's, one of Simon's arrows screams past his head. The other, trailing just behind, lands a grazing blow to the shoulder as Ludwig's great form finally collapses.

The fallen Holy Blade lashes out with awkward, desperate swings that you dodge with ease before slamming both of your clubs into his shoulder. The joint implodes under your blow and the arm hangs limp, dead fingers still gripping the sword. Despite this, he continues to thrash, reaching for you with his surviving arm and lurching forward with attempts to bite.

You've beaten his martial artistry out of him until all that's left is violence. Then the cannon booms and takes that away as well.

The blast tears through his neck and leaves ruin in its wake. Newly-exposed tendons, as big around as your arm where untouched, struggle to keep Ludwig's head attached, a struggle you end with a burst of laser fire.

The overwhelming noise ceases, its exit almost palpable. After that cacophonous struggle, the quiet seems to reassert itself with force, drowning out Steffon's sloshing footsteps from the entryway with the Nightmare's moment of silence for its fallen champion.

Prey Slaughtered​

Steffon and Simon reach you at approximately the same time. The former raises his hand, vacillating between handshake and shoulder-pat height, before simply letting it fall to his side. "We won," he says.

"Aye. Fine fightin', the lot o' ye."

The three of you look over Ludwig's ruined form for a moment. Djura staggers in, his arm bound up in an impromptu sling, and joins your unspeaking vigil. You're not sure whether a solemn eulogy or hip-thrusting victory dance is the appropriate course of action.

A nickering sound snaps you all from your trance and you look as one at Ludwig's severed head. A clouded eye slowly opens and regards you, expression inscrutable.

"Oh, dear," says Ludwig, heedless of his nonexistent respiratory system, "I seem to have lost. I congratulate you, good Hunters, on a magnificent fight. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, wherever that may be."

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