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

[Tricia]

"Aye, you too," you say. "Ye're pretty good." You're not entirely certain why your fingers just twitched.

Ludwig laughs, head rolling slightly in the newly-stilled mire. "Well said. Might I know your names? We've not had the opportunity for proper introductions."

"Father Alexander Anderson o' the Catholic Church," you reply, then point to your companions in sequence. "Djura and Steffon o' the Powder Kegs..."

"Do you remember me?" Simon interrupts before you can begin his introduction. "We sparred once. You accidentally broke both of my legs."

Ludwig's gaze, easily tracked thanks to general hugeness, roams from Simon's weapon back to his face. You think he grins afterwards, but the number of teeth involved makes it difficult to tell. "Simon, was it not? Apologies once again for that; the Workshop had been quite adamant that their new shin guards were up to snuff.

"I had forgotten," he continues, looking downwards. "I had...I had forgotten quite a lot."

You take a few steps back, the Kegs following your cue.

"You kept attacking even after regaining your senses," says Simon. "Why?"

"My mentor demanded it."

"Your 'mentor' led you to this Nightmare. Left you in this state."

"Do you think me a fool?" Ludwig snaps. "I knew from the moment I awoke what had become of me and why. But I had heeded its guidance for so long. I could not simply stop. I could not render everything I have done meaningless." His rich voice cracks as he searches for the words. "I needed a path to follow. Forgive an old man his selfishness."

Simon, covered in gore and breathing heavily, glares for a moment, then slumps forward with a sigh. He stalks towards the slowly-cooling mound of broken Ludwig bits and pulls out an arrow with grisly schlorp sound. Returning to the head, he nocks the arrow and draws his bow to its full bend. You can almost hear the metal groan in protest.

He pauses, a question he doesn't want to ask hovering in the air.

"Thank you," says Ludwig, and Simon releases the string. The Holy Blade dies with something like a smile.

"I couldn't stand to see him in that state," says Simon, walking back to the body. "Forgive an old man his selfishness." He gets to work yanking out his arrows while you and the Powder Kegs look at one another.

"That was...interesting," says Steffon after confirming that Simon is out of earshot.

"Yep. Gotta say, wasn't expectin' a fight ta the death with a giant horse monster in a room full o' blood ta end like that."

"We should probably make sure he's alright," says Djura.

"I vote you do it," you say.

"Why me?"

"'cus he looks like he's in a stabbin' mood and that broken arm gives ye sympathy points."

"You're the one who regenerates," he counters.

"Which I've already had ta do quite a bit recently, thank ye very much."

"Let's just give him a bit of time," says Steffon. "Come on, let's see if we can get your Stake Driver operational again and salvage those cannonballs."

The two of them wander off to do so, leaving you alone with the corpse now that Simon's moved on to digging his arrows out of the walls. Your eyes are drawn to the great blade, still shining brilliantly despite soaking in blood new and old.

[] Take the sword

[] Don't take the sword

[] Talk to
-[] Who?

[] Stop by the Dream

[] Keep moving forward

 

[Tricia]

Your three compatriots, each absorbed in their own tasks, show little interest in the magnificent weapon; thus, by the ancient and time-honored dibs system, it's now yours. You mumble the magic word and reach for the overlarge handle. Probably not a good idea to use the thing right away, but you'll have Gehrman take a look at it and work from there.

The weapon shrinks down to a more appropriate yet still ridiculously huge size when you grasp it. Despite this, there's almost no sensation of weight as you swing it back and forth. You take a moment to look for the laser button before something catches your eye, drawing your attention upwards.

It's a light, brilliant and warm and welcoming. It drifts lazily back and forth, whispering words as incomprehensible as they are soothing. Though its size seems to change with every heartbeat, you can tell it's getting closer. The blood parts beneath its advance as though before royalty and the air has the faintest hint of static.

You've had better hallucinations, but this one's pretty nice.

As the light reaches your head, it flashes searingly, its gentle susurrations replaced with a piercing shriek that fades away with a smell of flame. When the sword falls from your hands, that's all it is: a sword, beautifully-crafted but otherwise unremarkable, tarnished with the nicks and dents of combat.

You feel a scraping in your chest as though of writhing thorns.

"Are you alright?" calls Simon, pausing mid-extraction. You give him a nod and he returns to his efforts. You scoop the blade from the shin-high slurry and give it a few practice swings. No kickass sword beam is forthcoming, much to your disappointment.

It's a shame none of these guys have any psychiatrical skill whatsoever, because discussing what you just saw with somebody is most likely the wisest course of action. Alas, the wisest course of action is rarely the most entertaining and you've got places to be, people to eviscerate, and long-held secrets to expose with all the grace and subtlety of a tactical nuclear strike.

Also, you've already run half a dozen therapists out of the Vatican with various degrees of PTSD and wouldn't wish to inflict something like that on your friends. You're sure it'll be fine.

You slide the blade into your sleeve and, after a moment's hesitation, send Ludwig's lifeless head in behind it. Once you make it back, you'll give the man a proper burial. He deserves that much, at least.

Simon, ammunition freshly restocked, walks up to you. Judging by the reduced frequency of explosions and cursing, the Powder Kegs seem nearly done, as well.

"What happened to Ludwig's sword? And," he continues with a double-take, "what happened to his head?"

"Got 'em stored for safe-keepin'. Figured I'd take 'im with us when we leave and we'd send 'im off right."

"But where'd you put them?"

You point up your sleeves. Simon's eyebrows do a merry dance of confusion and he opens his mouth to ask for clarification before Djura grabs his shoulder with his good arm.

"Don't. For your own sake."

Simon hesitates for a moment.

"Is it some kind of forbidden knowledge?"

"No, it'll just bother the shit out of you."

You grin. "How's the arm, Djura?"

"It's fine," he replies before Simon can object to the abrupt change in subject.

"No," says Steffon, "It's bloody well not. Your ulna and radius are in pieces and the only reason you don't have permanent damage is that I managed to take the vial out of your hand before you used it."

Djura grouches at him.

"Wait," you say, "I thought those things healed anythin' that wasn't torn off."

"Nah," the younger Keg replies, grouching harder in response, "wouldn't need doctors if that was the case. They'll fix up a clean break as long as it's set properly, but this stubborn old bastard needs surgery."

"I only need one arm to to shoot." Djura's got the look and sound of a child trying desperately to argue his way out of eating vegetables.

Steffon sighs and goes to pinch the bridge of his nose before seemingly thinking better of putting his thoroughly-fouled hands anywhere near his eyes. "Anderson, I've risked my life to join your Crusade despite just meeting you. You can repay me by helping lug this idiot back to Iosefka."

[] Help lug the idiot back to Iosefka

[] Stop by the Dream first

[] Argue Djura's case

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"Aye, I can be of service," you reply. You briefly consider exaggeratedly nannying Djura in an attempt to discern once and for all whether he actually has a sense of humor before reminding yourself that he does, in fact, only need one arm to shoot. "Think we could all do with a checkup, actually."

You jerk your head towards the newest member of your four-man band. "That means you, too, Simon. Ye're comin' with us."

"What?" he replies, seemingly startled. "Why? I'm completely uninjured."

"Couple reasons. For one, I'd kinda like ye ta meet the rest o' the crew, and for two, I'd rather cool my heels someplace I'm not ankle-deep in blood. It's no fun when ye weren't even the one ta spill most of it." When he still looks hesitant, you grin. "Relax, this twisted Hellscape ain't goin' anywhere and I'm sure ye won't instantly age inta dust the second we arrive like that one bit in Last Crusade."

"Wait what-"

"Alright, group huddle," you interrupt. He sputters for a second before succumbing to peer pressure and joining the Powder Kegs in your little circle. After rummaging about for the eye, you produce it and a cross, which you hand to Simon. "Put this in yer pocket and hold on."

Once he's pocketed it, the four of you attempt to find a good hold amid the eye's limited real estate.

Static, or at least the idea of static, crackles through your mind, broken soon after by Ebrietas' voice.

There are four of you? Did you meet someone new?

"Yep," you both say and think, "we did. Mind bringin' us back so we can introduce 'im?"

Of course. I will do so in five, four, three...

You're jerked off your metaphorical feet like a struggling stage actor running afoul of the hook; the trip remains rather unpleasant, though not quite as much as during your maiden voyage. Maybe Ebrietas is getting the hang of it.

The three of you who've been through this before land on your feet, while Simon needs an impromptu jig and some unflattering arm flailing to maintain his balance. You look about in the pleasant breeze to find yourself on the chapel roof next to Ebrietas, Liam, and a handful of Churchmen, who wave hello.

After confirming that Simon has not, in fact, dissolved screaming into a pile of bone bits, you look up at your biggest recruit.

"Thank ye kindly."

No problem. Will you need to go back?

"In a bit." You jerk a thumb over your shoulder at Djura, who is currently chatting with the Churchman manning the Gatling gun in an obvious procrastination ploy. "Old man took a bit of a beatin'; we're droppin' 'im off with Iosefka."

Is he alright?

"Busted arm. Nothing the doctor can't fix."

Ebrietas tilts her head slightly upwards and you follow her gaze to Simon's gaping mug. You can see Liam holding back laughter out of the corner of your eye as the ancient Hunter searches for an appropriate response to the living proof that you were not, in fact, bullshitting him earlier. Neither Ebrietas' telepathic Hello! nor her friendly tentacle wave seem to pierce his stupor until you give him an unsubtle elbow to the ribs.

"I, er, apologize, Madam Ebrietas. This is a lot to take in," he says over the clatter of Steffon physically herding Djura down the stairs.

Oh, no, it's fine. Most of the people here had the same response. You can just call me 'Ebrietas' if you want.

There's a scream and rush of flame from somewhere down below which nobody on the roof seems terribly surprised by. You raise an eyebrow.

"What's goin' on?"

"We're under siege," says Liam, "from my old employers. It's pretty shit as sieges go, but it's annoying. They started showing up once Eileen finished her recon, fifteen minutes or so after you left."

There are approximately a dozen individuals outside, each of whom can summon a number of subservient creatures a seemingly unlimited number of times. None have managed to pierce your barrier thus far.

"Ellis over there on the gun wasted a lot of ammo before Ebrietas figured that out," Liam continues, drawing a middle finger from the individual in question.

"They have any demands?" asks Simon, seemingly grateful for the opportunity to put his first impression behind him.

"An old lady in a robe walked up and asked for 'that crazy bastard with the bayonets.' Eileen told them to piss off and that's when the party started."

You nod. "Any idea where those twelve are?"

I get a brief sense of their locations every time they summon something, but they are constantly moving. Eileen is downstairs discussing the situation with some of the Church Hunters.

Well, you suppose it wouldn't be fair if you got to have all the fun.

[] Keep talking to Ebrietas
-[] About?

[] Talk with Eileen

[] Find and engage them yourself

[] They can handle it; catch up with everyone, make sure Djura's settled, and head back to the Nightmare

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

Eileen would probably want you to hang back and plan things out with her, but wouldn't it be badass if you just walked in and told her you'd solved her problem? You know just how to do so, after all.

"Why's he smiling?" says Liam to Ebrietas. The Churchmen instinctively flinch and one of them falls down the stairs in a panic.

"I'm smilin' 'cus I've got an idea."

That sounds really ominous.

"Nah, it'll be great. Here's what I'm thinkin': the next time ye sense one o' them summonin' somethin', ye toss me at them."

Toss you?

"Yeah! Imagine the looks on their faces when they see the righteous fist o' God crashin' down on them from the sky."

Ebrietas looks at you for a second, then slithers over to the edge and looks over.

We're very high up. And I've never really tossed anything that I wasn't trying to break.

"Look, I'll be fine; ye trust me, don't ye?"

I do.

"Right then; let's get everythin' ready."

Liam, who has been watching you with an increasingly incredulous look on his face, seems to be twitching in place as Ebrietas gently wraps a tentacle around you and hoists you into the air.

"Okay, now just put yer left le...tentacle forward and be sure ta shift yer weight as ye throw."

Okay.

"Are you serious?" Liam blurts out.

"I'm always serious, lad. Wouldn't be fittin' for a man o' the LORD not ta be."

"I have worked with some of the most twisted, fractured minds in the history of the Church and you are by far the most insane individual I have ever encountered."

"Look, if ye don't have any constructive criticism for the plan, then I'm not interested in yer opinion."

Okay, I've found one. Three, two..."

You are surprisingly aerodynamic, you realize as you hurtle through the air, club in hand. You also realize that Ebrietas' concerns about altitude were very well-founded and that you are going very, very fast towards something very, very hard.

Despite the air resistance doing a number on your eyeballs, you catch sight of your target: a robed, spindly-limbed woman delicately ringing a bell as a glowing red mass takes shape before her. You never do get to see what it turns out to be, unfortunately, as you hit her so hard with an overhead smash that you more or less erase everything from her head to her pelvis from existence.

Then your swing hits the ground and the recoil does to your arms what it just did to her everything. The rest of you makes a worrying splat noise as the falling bell tinkles softly and the summonee fades away.

Are you okay, Father Anderson?

"Worth it," you mumble through a mouthful of broken teeth. You slowly lurch back to your feet, arms flopping bonelessly in painfully literal fashion, in a complex multi-stage assortment of inelegant flops and false starts. Amazingly enough, your glasses managed to survive the impact intact, perhaps as a result of the rest of your face breaking the fall.

You hear another ring nearby and turn, accidentally overshooting more than once, to see another of the hooded women gawping at you nearby. Her own bell falls from her hands as her brain seemingly encounters a fatal exception. This leaves her horribly ill-prepared for your charging headbutt and followup stomping frenzy.

"That's just rude, starin' at someone who hasn't even had a chance ta put their face on yet."

You're getting there, at least; it's just nose cartilage and a few molars to go. You're still more handsome than Major Fettarsche and his bitey little twat brigade.

Sadly, there are no buddies nearby to high-five for that burn, but perhaps those three gentleman who have just surrounded you may be of service. Two of them look almost identical, sporting iron helms atop heavy black robes, but the third has only the helm and a pair of boxers. You'll just go ahead and assume he's the Curly of the team.

They show a bit more creativity in their weapon selection, with one spearman, one cane-wielder, and Curly sporting a set of gnarly-looking bones lashed together into a makeshift gauntlet. Caneboy, who is now Larry by process of induction, is also lugging a slightly larger and less elegant variant of the Kegs' portable cannon.

"You're coming with us," says Moe in a helmet-enhanced baritone.

"Well that's awfully presumptuous of ye. Have ye considered my feelin's?"

That seems to throw them off; their carefully-crafted triangle of intimidation wobbles a bit, losing a fair bit of menace as they glance at one another.

"That was a command, not a statement."

"And what if I don't want ta come with ye?"

"Then we'll be forced to use...force."

"Ye can't go through life forcin' yer way through all yer problems, ye know? We're all adults here; let's talk this out."

This was clearly not what they were expecting; you barely conceal a grin at their obvious discomfort. Just gotta keep them buffaloed until your arms have there we go.

Larry, who seemed on the cusp of a quality retort, goes down from a combination of a high-speed bayonet and some really shoddy ironwork on his helmet. Moe raises his spear, which you now realize doubles as a gun barrel, but quickly brings it down when Curly, being Curly, elects to enter melee range against a man twice his size. You step inside his swing, allowing his forearm to thunk harmlessly into the side of your head, and deliver the kind of body shot that could make a man's descendants shit themselves.

This causes Curly to fold himself into a more rounded, streamlined shape, perfect for hurling at his friend at uncomfortably high speeds. In his panic, Moe winds up catching Curly on the tip of his spear, the momentum bowling him over and producing a delightful ping noise as his helmet slams into the cobbles.

"So," you say, strolling over to your fallen club, "have ye learned yer lesson about takin' others' feelin's inta consideration?"

Moe spends a frantic moment trying to tug his spear free from his now-dead comrade before abandoning the thing and hauling ass towards what should be, if your internal compass wasn't totally bungled by your landing, the Cathedral plaza. You twist the club like this and take aim, only for some kill-stealing fuckhole to absolutely ruin Moe's head with a hammer strike.

Just before you start laying into him for his unacceptable shenanigans, you recognize said fuckhole as an extremely pissed Alfred. Upon returning his hammer to its back holster, he stomps towards you and raises his arm in what seems, for one fleeting instant, like your much-desired high five. Alas, the second arm quickly joins it and he grips you by the collar, lifting you with surprising ease.

"What have you done, you mad bastard?! What have you done?!"

[] Explain yourself
-[] Every ridiculous escapade
-[] Certain ridiculous escapades

[] Don't explain yourself

[] Ask him what he's been up to

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

Alfred's doing a pretty solid job of holding you steady in midair without a wall to slam you into. He's probably going to want to straighten out his wrists, though; letting them bend under your weight like that is just asking for a sprain.

"Well?"

Oh, right, the furious interrogation.

"...proactively protected my flock?" you reply.

"What?"

"Well, we're kinda under siege at the moment, so I figured I'd step out and do some cleanup. But enough about me, how've ye been? Feel like it's been ages. Any luck with those vampires?"

"How have I been?" he snaps, seemingly back in the groove. "I was at my post, making sure you hadn't stirred up some unholy mess in Old Yharnam, when I heard a bloody war break out near the Grand Cathedral. I figured the Church Hunters were dealing with some aggressive beasts, but when my curiosity got the better of me, I decided to go and take a look." He pulls your face towards his, although the act would probably be more intimidating if he weren't several inches shorter than you. "You turned the plaza into a slaughtering ground. You butchered dozens."

"Oh, is that what ye're mad about? I assure ye, this is all a big misunderstandin'."

"So who killed them?"

"Me and two friends, but we had a good reason."

He trembles for a moment before dropping you back to your feet, taking a few steps away, and gulping down some deep breaths.

"Do you enjoy making me angry?"

"Not you specifically, no."

His anger seems to reach the plateau of harmonic fury. With slow, deliberate movements, he pulls his hammer free and cocks it over his shoulder. His placid face twitches ever-so-slightly in unstable equilibrium.

"Alexander Anderson," he breathes, "in the very short time since I last saw you, you have torn apart the Healing Church's most sacred grounds, killed an untold number of its members, and provoked guerrilla warfare with a third party. You will explain what happened and why, in exact detail, or so help me I will mash you into the ground until you stop getting up."

"Fine, but can I do it closer ta the chapel? Got some witnesses and evidence there, plus a bit o' grub if ye're hungry."

"No."

"Alright, alright. So it turns out the Healin' Church was an evil cult and the blood they used belonged ta, bear with me, creatures from beyond the stars."

Your audience hesitates. "'Beyond the stars?' Is that a metaphor?"

"You'd think, but no. See, they're called 'Great Ones' and I don't recall invitin' yer bitch arse inta this conversation."

The glowing red hunchback appears totally unrepentant for his grievous breach of social etiquette as he bears down on you, brick held high. Glitzy as he is, there's only so many times huge people can charge straight at you before the trick stops working. You put a bayonet through his head as Alfred pulverizes a pitchfork wielder, also glowing, who seemed to understand the concept of flanking but stumbled a bit in execution.

More of the technicolor armada round nearby corners. You and Alfred, working in unconscious tandem, go back-to-back and lay into them with club, hammer, bayonets, and some headbutts for the rowdier ones.

"Ain't this great?" you say as you punt a dog into nearby masonry. "Fightin' the heathen hordes together, bondin' like warriors."

"We are not bonding."

"I toldja this'd be a beautiful friendship."

"Please shut up."

You notice that the battered bodies vanish rather than stay behind, much like those you encountered in the Nightmare. You make a mental note to grab one of the bells the ladies dropped and investigate the potential for infinite punching bags.

When it seems clear that no second wave is forthcoming, Alfred hurriedly attempts to re-establish distance from you.

"How many of them are there?" he says. "I saw dozens attack the chapel before you got thrown off the roof."

"Apparently as many as they want," you reply. "And how did ye know that was me?"

He just looks at you.

"Okay, dumb question. Now can we head back ta the chapel? I'm all for kickin' a theoretically unlimited amount of arse but I've got some business ta take care of."

"Alright," he says with a frown. "I suppose if you intended to kill me you would have done so during the fight."

"See, that's the kind of trust only true friendship can foster."

"I will beat you."

After a brief detour to pocket one of the bells those clumsy ladies dropped, you lead the way back towards home base, mentally comparing your current location to the overhead view you got during your outbound flight. You make good headway before running into your fine feathered friend not far from the entrance.

"What the hell were you thinking, Anderson?" says Eileen while the Churchman beside her trades glares with Alfred.

"That it would be awesome ta swoop down upon the heathens like a thunderbolt from the heavens."

"And was it worth hitting the ground so hard we could hear your bones break from inside the chapel?"

"Completely."

You hear the faintest hints of a sigh through her mask.

A third Churchman, presumably another member of the Anderson Retrieval Party, trots into view. Eileen nods towards Alfred.

"Who's your friend?"

"Alfred, the Executioner," you reply as he twitches despondently in the background.

"Hm, I thought they had disbanded. In any case, come inside and we'll figure out where to go from here. Steffon filled me in on some of your adventures."

She spins smartly on her heel and the Churchmen move to either side of her. You follow their march and look over your shoulder to see Alfred trudging along with an air of resigned acceptance.

[] Fill Alfred in

[] Have one of the others fill Alfred in
-[] Introduce Alfred to Ebrietas

[] Brainstorm with Eileen

[] Head back to the Nightmare with Steffon and Simon

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

The journey back is thankfully ambush-free, giving Alfred zero opportunities to duck away from your stirring retelling of the night's assorted shenanigans. He accepts your version with surprisingly-little resistance, either accustomed to the unique brand of insanity that trails at your heels or too exhausted to protest.

Eileen's got a rather quick walk, unfortunately, so you've only reached the opening segment of the assault on Grand Cathedral by the time Oedon Chapel slides into view around a corner. You pause your incredibly accurate pantomime of the big fat flappy-necked bastard to pass Alfred a cross, which he takes without a word.

"Don't lose that before goin' inside or ye'll fry ta death," you inform him. He nods glumly.

The chapel's ground floor is quiet and sparsely-populated compared to the crowded mess you're accustomed to. Iosefka, flanked by her tiny nurses' assistants, has Djura hooked up to an IV in the corner. What Churchmen are about have given her a sizable radius with which to operate while they play cards or argue quietly with one another over where to put Rosemary, whom they have repurposed as a coat rack. Arianna occupies the opposite corner alongside Agatha, talking idly about the history of Yharnam, while the suspicious guy crouches in his little rubbish nest and munches carefully on an unidentifiable fruit.

"The rest are either on the roof or on one of the upper floors with their guns out the windows," Eileen whispers. "We were having a strategy meeting until Steffon dragged Djura down here and you decided to test Ebrietas' shot put."

"I was thinkin' more lawn darts, actually."

"I imagine she'd be disqualified no matter what sport it was."

"Racism is a wound that will not heal."

"Anyway," says Eileen, forcefully wrangling the conversation back onto the track, "we can resume whenever you're ready."

"Mind if I introduce Alfred ta Ebrietas first? I'll bring whoever's up there back after I'm done."

"Go ahead."

You motion for Alfred to follow you, which he does after a moment's delay, and the two of you soon reach the rooftop. Liam moves to meet you.

"She's been worrying about you since she heard you hit the ground. Go apologize."

You're not used to being talked down to, but Liam uses his freakish height amazingly well. He doesn't even have to raise the dreaded index finger to express his overpowering disappointment in you.

The gigantic cephalopod in question slithers over in a hurry and gives you a quick once-over. You lower your head and scratch the back of it, grinning weakly.

"Sorry 'bout that; was struck by inspiration and didn't think things through."

I'm just glad you're okay. Your regeneration is unbelievable, but do you have to take it for granted like that?

"As a wise man once said: 'when ye've got it, flaunt it.' But I'll be more careful from now on, alright."

Thank you. Where did your friend go?

You spin around to see that Alfred has, indeed, done a runner. You give Ebrietas the "just one moment" sign and hustle down the stairs, taking care not to make too much noise in case Iosefka's got something sharp in an important place on Djura's arm.

Thanks to an unfortunate stumble on the Executioner's part, you catch up with him not far outside the doorway and wrap up his arm. The man's nearly hyperventilating and his eyes are faintly bloodshot.

"Now that was just fuckin' rude," you admonish him.

"You," he manages to breathe, "are an utter madman. Your friends are madmen. I refuse to be a part of this. You are going to burn the world down and I have something I need to take care of before that happens. Let me go."

[] Let him go

[] Drag him back

[] Roundtable with Eileen

[] Head back into the Nightmare

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

He doesn't wait for your response before making a desperate bid to wrench free of your grasp. It's not the careful, technical escape of a warrior, but the frantic thrashing of a caught animal. Kind of like a really big ferret that also hates you.

"Hold yer horses, Alfred," you say, pointedly ignoring his attempts to loosen your grip by punching you in the stomach. "Ye've gotta do somethin' before I letcha go."

"What else could you possibly want from me?" he replies. Judging by his twitching jaw and repeated glances towards his caught forearm, you think he might be weighing the merits of chewing it off to escape.

"Go back and apologize ta the lady for bein' rude."

He stops cold and just stares at you for a bit, getting his wits back just before you wind up to smack him in the face with his own hand.

"You want me to apologize."

"Yep."

"To the gigantic abomination sitting on top of the chapel you have utterly profaned with your presence."

"The same."

"Why."

"Common decency."

"I hate you so much."

"I know."

He doesn't protest as you all-but-literally drag him back towards the front door. You don't begrudge him the reaction; realizing you've completely lost control of your life can be rather jarring.

Luckily for his shins, he surmounts the stairs unassisted. Once up top, you give him an inspiring shove towards Ebrietas, who is "sitting" with her hands on her lower tentacles.

"I apologize for my earlier rudeness," says Alfred in an unsettling monotone. "I acted hastily and without consideration for your feelings."

That's very nice of you. Thank you...?

"Alfred."

Thank you, Alfred. What are you going to do now?

"I was going to take a seat over there by the gun and re-evaluate my life choices."

Well, good luck with that.

In robotic fashion, Alfred wanders over towards Ellis and sits down on a pack of munitions, staring out towards the overlarge moon.

Who is he?

"One o' the Executioners. Met him over by the entrance ta old Yharnam before I picked up the Powder Kegs. He saw ye toss me and came ta chew me out for destroyin' the Church. Hell of a throw, by the way."

She somehow beams at you without a mouth, then turns back towards Alfred, who has not moved an inch since sitting down. Maybe he and Rosemary could start a support group.

We're the good guys, right?

"Aye."

Before the conversation can get too heavy, you rummage through your sleeves and produce one of the hooded women's bells. Ebrietas leans forward to scrutinize it, switching from one eye to the other.

"Any idea what this is? The ladies doin' the summonin' each had one."

It's not dissimilar from the eye you showed me earlier; it's a link between this world and another one. The difference is that while the eye transports one's entire being into the other world, this simply creates a copy of the target's body and transfers their consciousness to it. I believe that when the copy dies, the consciousness returns to the original body.

"That sounds ripe for abuse," you say.

"Case in point" replies Liam as you hear yet another interloper burst into flames.

"So what would happen if I tried ta use it?"

I'm not sure. Sorry.

"Nah, don't be. Learned a lot."

She hands the bell back to you and you return it to its home among your other goodies. You scan the roof for Simon and spot him looking through one of the Powder Kegs' sacks of melee weapons, running his fingers over the edges and taking a few practice swings. He seems to be adjusting well to being in the future, although that's not too surprising considering that he's used to Yharnam being a beast-infested shithole.

"What should we do if Alfred tries to make a run for it?" asks Liam. "I've still got the burlap sack downstairs if you need it."

[] Make him stay

[] Let him go if he wants

[] Roundtable with Eileen

[] Return to the Nightmare

[] Talk with
-[] Who?

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"Eh, let 'im go," you say. "I'll see if I can't get Eileen ta chat with him, fill 'im in on why we did what we did, but forcin' 'im ta stay won't do anyone any good."

"What, like you did me?" says Liam.

"That was different."

He opens his mouth to rebut you, but just sighs. "I've learned better than to try and argue semantics with you."

It's a losing battle.

At last, people who recognize your impeccable debating prowess.

"Got some things ta take care of downstairs; be back in a bit." Your two companions nod and make their ways closer to the edge of the rooftop, looking over the city's mangled streets alongside Alfred and Ellis. You note that a few of the lounging Churchmen have chunks of masonry in their hands, the reason for which becomes clear when the pounding of footsteps announces a fresh wave of baddies. Said Churchmen hop to their feet and, after testing the wind, hurl their munitions over the edge. A moment later, the standard burning screams enjoy the accompaniment of several satisfying *thunks*.

As someone who has also spent his live in the clergy, you are both impressed with and unsurprised by their talent for mitigating boredom.

At your approach, Simon lays down the cleaver he was ogling and rises to his feet.

"The materials and crafting processes have changed quite a bit," he says by way of explanation. He gives a wan grin a he looks out over the Yharnam skyline. "Even if not much else has."

"Say what you will about the folks in charge of buildin' this place, they had a vision and they stuck to it. Eileen's havin' a strategy meetin' downstairs and ye're welcome to join. I need ta chat with her real quick and then I'll pop in once I finish some business in the Dream."

"That's the place you mentioned with the Doll and the old man in the wheelchair, correct?"

"The same."

"Enjoy yourself, I suppose. Lead the way."

The feathery friend in question has set up shop in one of the third floor's side rooms, complete with fancy chairs and a tasteful wooden table. She is seated next to Steffon, three Churchmen spaced haphazardly on the opposite side. Upon noticing you, she rises and extends a hand towards Simon.

"Simon of the Bowblade. Steffon's told me quite a bit about you."

"Eileen, Hunter of Hunters," he replies, accepting the handshake. "Father Anderson has spoken your praises."

"He speaks a lot of things," she says as she returns to her seat. Simon sits next to one of the Hunters and Eileen turns to you. "Ready to join us?"

"Need ta stop by the Dream first. Also, I've a favor ta ask."

"Oh?"

"Would ye mind fillin' Alfred in on what's happened and why? I've tried but he hates my guts."

"I suppose so; you can bring him down here and we'll open with a recap. You don't mind if we start while you're away, do you?"

"Nah, It's fine."

"It's just that your strategy for breaking the siege was for Ebrietas to throw you even though you can teleport and-"

"Just needed ta comment on that in front of everyone, huh?"

"You deserved it."

"It's not my fault none o' ye can see the depths o' my tactical genius."

You scurry back to the rooftop to find that Alfred has not moved at all. He doesn't even have a visible reaction to Ellis uncertainly poking him in the shoulder. You walk over and stand behind him, just out of immediate stabbing distance.

"We're havin' a meetin' on the third floor. I'd like ye ta attend."

"And if I choose not to?" he replies.

"No skin off my back. I brought ye back ta apologize; what ye do now is yer business."

You wait a few moments for a response; when none is forthcoming, you walk over to Ebrietas, whose presence snaps a memory into focus.

"I've just had a thought."

Should I be worried?

"Remember Hope? I told ye about 'er back in Upper Cathedral Ward."

Yes, she's the Doll from the Hunter's Dream.

"Well, I told her about ye and she said she'd love ta meet ye."

She rounds on you excitedly. Really? She wants to meet me?

"She does; sounded real excited about it, too. Ye figured out how ta work the eye, so I thought maybe ye could finagle a way ta communicate with the Dream."

It's certainly possible. I would have to spend some time studying the objects that link this world to the Dream, but I think I could do it. She's projecting an air of calm analysis after her initial reaction to the news, but her happily-wiggling tentacles betray her eagerness. The odd lantern in the Grand Cathedral was one, correct?

"Aye; got one downstairs, too."

Once the siege is dealt with, I'll head over and see what I can do. Though she tries to maintain her composure, the facade soon falls and she begins rapidly bobbing up and down. A new friend! Liam, I-

"I heard, I heard," says the big man.

"Great! I'll let Hope know while I'm in the Dream." You once more head towards the stairway, leaving a very grumpy-looking Liam to deal with his overexcited parole officer alone. Footsteps, which a glance over your shoulder confirm to be a haggard-looking Alfred's, follow you down. He gets off at the third floor while you tiptoe your way through Iosefka's impromptu surgical theater en route to the lantern.

Hope gives you her customary bow when you arrive. With a smile, you take a seat next to her on her ledge and regale her with tales of your extraordinarily violent adventures in the Nightmare. As you speak and demonstrate with ever-grander gestures, the Messengers trickle in from the various corners of the Dream for storytime.

They, too, seem perplexed as to why you had Ebrietas throw you off of a multi-story building when you can teleport.

"...And here we are. Iosefka's fixin' up Djura's arm and the rest are either standin' guard or strategizin'."

"Never a dull moment for you or your flock," she replies.

"Can't have 'em gettin' complacent, can I? Struggle builds character."

She laughs softly. "A flock full of character and characters."

"Speakin' o' characters, I talked with Ebrietas and she's gonna try and find some way ta communicate with ye. Ye mentioned wantin' ta meet her and she's tickled, well, blue about the idea."

"Oh my," she replies with a smile, "that is excellent news. The Dream is safe and tranquil, but can be so terribly lonely. I cannot wait to speak with her. Do you think she will like the little ones?"

"She'll adore the buggers." You reach down and pat one of said buggers on the head. "Gehrman about?"

"He is in the Workshop."

"Thanks, Hope."

"Anytime, Hunter Anderson."

You find Gehrman near the doorway, resting his head on his knuckles.

"Listenin' in?" you ask him.

"You are many things, Father Anderson. Easy to ignore is not one of them." He turns his chair about and wheels his way further inside. "I'm impressed that you made such short work of the Nightmare. Not surprised, mind you, but impressed nonetheless."

"I've had more terrifyin' nightmares from bad pizza. Ye know much about the place?"

"As with so many things, just stories." He stretches to place a trio of bells and some tools back on the upper shelves. "Secondhand, thirdhand, exaggerations and fabrications. None pleasant."

"It ain't all awful," you reply, fishing through your sleeves to produce Ludwig's battered blade. "Picked this up off o' what was left of Ludwig, the Holy Blade. Which I guess would make this the Holy Blade."

"Never met the man," he says as he takes the weapon in his calloused hands. "But Laurence loved him like a son. I've heard legends of Ludwig from generation after generation of Hunters. Truly extraordinary individual. And you defeated him."

"It was a team effort and that thing was barely Ludwig for half the fight. Still, it was an honor."

"I would imagine so." He scoots a bit closer to the desk and picks up a variety of lenses, inspecting the weapon up and down in a blur of mechanical precision. He pauses, frowns, and rifles through various drawers before pulling out another bevy of contraptions and giving the blade the works once more.

"There was something there," he reports. "There are traces left, but this is just a sword. One I would be proud to have made, but just a sword."

"Traces o' what?"

"I'm not entirely sure, and it's been quite some time since I've been baffled by a weapon. I'd be willing to hold onto it and see if I can't learn more."

"Had another plan for it, actually; figured I'd give Ludwig a proper funeral. He earned that much."

"Here in the Dream?"

"Can't think of a better place. The Nightmare's awful and Yharnam ain't all that much better. Ye're welcome ta join me if ye'd like."

Gehrman takes a deep breath and lets it out with a sigh, leaning heavily on his cane. "Please forgive me, Father, but I'm not one for funerals. I'll be sure to pay my respects afterwards." He reaches up among the assorted weapons and plucks out a sizable shovel, passing it to you along with the blade. "You're welcome to use this, though. Just don't push that button halfway up the handle. You can make a plot for him in the flowerbed, near the tree."

"Thank ye kindly." You step back outside and walk towards Hope, who is currently having her hair braided by a dedicated team of Messengers.

"Yes, Hunter Anderson?"

"Would ye mind terribly if I buried Ludwig here? Man was a warrior and he deserves peace for once."

"You are welcome to do so, so long as Gehrman has given you permission as well."

"Aye, he said I could bury him in the flowerbed."

"A lovely spot, and a kind gesture from him. He adores those flowers."

"Care ta join me?"

"I would love to."

The Messengers tie her work-in-progress locks up with a bit of ribbon and the two of you pass through the gate into the silent field, awash with white four-petaled flowers. You spend some time searching for a spot that won't disturb too many of them before getting to work.

It's a hell of a shovel, tearing through the Dream's unbroken soil with incredible ease. You have a few close calls with the button, prompting flinches from Hope, but you make excellent time. She watches impassively as you produce his twisted head from your sleeves and lay it within its cradle of earth.

Once the divot has been filled and patted smooth, you pull out your Bible and flip through for an appropriate quotation. Hope produces her copy from among her bundled clothing and, with your direction, follows along.

"Listen; the time will come -- indeed it has come already -- when you are going to be scattered, each going his own way and leaving me alone. And yet I am not alone, because the Father is with me.

"I have told you all this so that you may find peace in me. In the world you will have hardship, but be courageous: I have conquered the world.

"Bless this man's soul, o LORD, that he may know your guidance. Unbreakable to the end, let him carry on his fight in your name or beat his blade into a plowshare in eternal peace. Amen."

"Amen."

You press his sword, beautiful despite its foregone splendor, into the earth until it holds firm.

"Would ye care ta make a blessing of yer own?" you ask Hope.

"I have but one prayer, Hunter Anderson, but it is very dear to me. Would that be acceptable?"

"Anything is, so long as it comes from yer heart."

She kneels down before the mound and you soon follow suit. The both of you bow your heads.

"O Flora, of the moon, of the dream..."

[] Talk to
-[] Gehrman
-[] Hope

[] Return to Yharnam
-[] Strategy meeting

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

The braiding squad seems mildly perturbed by the interruption, but quickly return to work once Hope sits back down.

"Thanks," you say.

"It was my pleasure."

You give her a bow and, shovel in tow, head back towards the Workshop. You idly bounce it on your shoulder a couple of times before remembering the button. Gehrman's waiting for you at the door.

"Appreciate the help," you say.

"You had a sound argument," he replies. "And it's nice to have something new in this place, tragic or not."

"Yeah, I imagine it'd get old after the first couple decades." You give the shovel a quick spin. "On a less morbid note, this is a damn fine shovel. What's the button do?"

He bites his lower lip and takes a sharp breath. "Not sure if that is any less morbid, really. The thing's got a bloody history."

"What, has it put a lot of people in the ground?"

"Yes, actually, it's-"

His expression shifts rapidly from puzzlement to anger. In an instant, he yanks the tool from your hand and clonks you with it.

"Tough crowd," you say once the ringing stops.

"Don't even start."

"Can I keep it?"

"Honestly, I would rather keep it here. I use it as a reminder of what not to do with trick weapons. Plus, you've got the club, and if you're going to be using my work in the waking world it might as well be my best."

"Old man's vanity?"

"You have a very good memory for someone who takes so many blows to the head."

"Mind like a steel trap. Will ye at least tell me what the button does?"

"You've got your sleeves, I have this shovel. It's only fair."

"Oh, that's just petty," you grump.

"But amusing."

You continue your indistinct grumbling as he wheels over to his workbench and returns the thing to its rightful spot. "Now, if I heard you correctly, you have a siege to break and a Nightmare to destroy. I won't hold you up; have fun with that, Father Anderson."

Hope giggles upon your approach, having presumably heard the whole thing, and your stride deepens into a sort of grouchy slouch. Even the gaggle of Messengers around the Yharnam grave seem amused, although that could just be a product of your projecting issues. How dare he do to you what you do to other people.

Despite the tragedy that has befallen you, you give thanks to the LORD as you fade away. You have been through a lot of shit tonight and He's been an invaluable boon.

Iosefka's assorted medical doodads are still in the same spot upon your return, so it doesn't seem like you've been gone long. You wonder if there's a hard-and-fast scale factor for time in the Dream or if it's totally relative, ultimately deciding to leave that question to someone with more patience and a better grasp of temporal mathematics.

The strategy meeting is partway through the recap phase, picking up where you left off on your way to the chapel, when you enter the room and take a seat, causing a slightly-awkward pause.

"Alright, I had my fun. What needs stabbin'?"

"We'll get to that shortly," says one of the Churchmen.

"You can get to that now," Alfred says, rising to his feet. "I recognize that what you're doing is, by and large, righteous. I also recognize that you have an extraordinary capacity for collateral damage and a tendency to pick fights with every major power you come across. Thank you for the offer, but I must decline."

"That's a lot better-put than the last time ye turned tail."

"I've had time to think. Goodbye."

"Be quiet on the way down; Djura's still in surgery."

"Fine."

Alfred steps out the door and down the stairs in a prototypical one-star-Yelp-review huff. "And good luck with the vampires," you call after him.

Eileen's the first to break the ensuing silence. "Saves us some time, then. Now, our reconnaissance managed to locate the entrance to the School of Mensis' hideout, which Liam called 'Yahar'gul.' Unfortunately, we ran into a patrol near said entrance and one managed to get back inside before we could kill him. We believe they either followed us back somehow without our knowledge or made an educated guess as to our base of operations.

"For approximately the last hour, we have been under siege by an endless supply of cannon fodder which Ebrietas informed me are summoned creatures called forth by a dozen casters, two of whom Father Anderson killed in his little adventure. At present, the siege has abated somewhat, making this an ideal time to strike back. Attacking Yahar'gul and hunting down the casters seem the most obvious courses of action."

She spreads her arms wide. "The floor is open."

[] Attack Yahar'gul directly
-[] Specific tactics

[] Hunt down the casters
-[] Specific tactics

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"Huntin' the casters sounds like a plan. Got some ideas about how ta do it," you say. The rest of the room turns to look at you with a mix of curiosity and abject horror.

"Go on," says Eileen.

"Alright, first off, we know Ebrietas can track 'em when they start summonin' shit. I nicked one o' the bells they use off of 'em, so we could check and see if she can use it ta make her job easier. While she's workin' on that and those arsewipes are takin' tea or whatever, we set up some traps; do we still have some left over from when we were jury-riggin' the doors?"

"We do, actually," Steffon confirms. "And it wouldn't be difficult or time-consuming to cobble together some more."

"Great. Once they start swarmin' again and the traps go off, I step out the front door and draw attention ta myself while you guys flank 'em and take 'em out one by one."

"Please be more specific about how you'll 'draw attention to yourself'," says Eileen, who has known you far too long to allow any ambiguity in your plans.

"Screamin' and gratuitous violence. A few psalms here, some explosions there, derogatory comments about the pricks' appearances, family, and past sexual encounters, etcetera. Far enough out where the kids can't hear it, of course."

Eileen nods slightly, then lowers her head in concentration.

"Any questions? Concerns? Suggestions for the aforementioned derogatory comments?"

Two of the three Churchmen present raise their hands.

"There will be no throwing involved."

One of them lowers his hand.

"Alright, you on the left."

"Do we really need traps? None of them have managed to make a dent in the ward and it seems like the ones we're actually after are content to keep their distance. Also, my name is Alexandria, just for future reference."

Huh, you never would have guessed with that haircut.

"I have an amendment to propose," says Eileen without raising her hand. "There must be a maximum distance they can be from what they summon, otherwise they wouldn't put themselves in harm's way like this. Plus, we know where they'll retreat to unless there's a safehouse we're unfamiliar with. Rather than have all of us burst out at once, we could send the reconnaissance team out first to camp near the entrance to Yahar'gul, leave a small squad there, and have the rest attack the casters on your signal. The ones who try to run get caught near Yahar'gul or at the very least put themselves out of range for further siege."

"We could set up a front line further up once they scatter," says Steffon. They seem to have totally abandoned the time-tested hand-raising system and plunged this meeting into anarchy. "If we're far enough out and have contact with Ebrietas, we could pick off any stragglers the moment they try to summon anything new."

The Churchmen (and woman) nod amongst themselves, while Simon's brow gets thoroughly furrowed.

"Somethin' on yer mind?" you say.

"I don't like this. They haven't adapted their tactics at all even though they're clearly doing nothing to the ward and you've killed several of them. When you decided to swoop in, there were three Hunters waiting. They're trying to draw us out."

"What do ye propose?"

"Wait it out. We have supplies and if they send out anything big enough to break the ward, it'll have to deal with the turret and everything else we have up there."

"As a wise man once said," you reply, "everyone's got a plan 'til they get punched in the mouth."

"Paranoia was in my job description," he says, "but the final decision is yours."

[] Go through with the assault
-[] Final tweaks to the plan?

[] Wait it out
-[] Return to the Nightmare

[] Write in...