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

[Tricia]

You bring a hand up to your chin and rub it in classic pondering fashion for a few moments.

"On the one hand, yer concerns are totally valid and we'd have the upper hand playin' defense. On the other hand, I really, really wanna beat the shit outta these guys. I say we go ahead and attack. All in favor?"

Eileen, Steffon, and one of the Churchmen raise their hands along with yours.

"All opposed?"

Alexandria, Simon, and the remaining Churchman raise their hands.

"Ayes have it, then. You guys willin' ta help out?"

You get a series of nods.

"Excellent. Alexandria was right; let's ditch the traps. Simon, you good for ranged support?"

"Certainly. Would Ebrietas be willing to take me to a better vantage point?"

"So long as ye ask nicely. While ye're there, take this bell up ta her and see if she can track 'em. Eileen, one o' the Mensis pricks tried ta make a break for the plaza; coulda just been a panic reflex, but it could be worth checkin' out."

"Duly noted. Leave the chapel exactly two minutes after the recon squad does. We'll bring the smoke; yellow means we need assistance, red means return to the chapel immediately. No smoke means either things are going to plan or we're all dead."

"That last part was kind of implied by the previous sentence."

"Too much at stake for ambiguity." Eileen gets to her feet, followed soon after by Steffon and the rest of the gang. "We deploy in five. Try not to make too much noise; Doctor Iosefka's got enough to deal with already and I need Djura healthy before I chew him out for getting hurt like that in the first place."

"In his defense," you reply, "that uppercut was fuckin' awesome."

"Going by what Simon told me, that is both true and entirely beside the point."

Meeting adjourned and minutes sadly untaken, the group files out in orderly fashion. Simon and Eileen head upstairs and the rest go to various floors, presumably to round up the rest of the squad. You, meanwhile, pull a watch from the recesses of your sleeves and note the current time. Seven minutes 'til curtain call.

You spend the intervening time in the meeting room tidying up your clothes, practicing your dramatic gestures, and compiling a selection of sordid comments to bellow once you're outside. Eileen, returning to the ground floor, does not bother answering your request for something that rhymes with "thundering twatwaffle." People just don't appreciate the work that goes into being a proper meat tank.

Three minutes into your preparations, Simon comes down to report in.

"Ebrietas says she can get a vague impression of where the casters are through the bell. Something along the lines of being able to follow the bell's link to the point of origin and then locate the other links from there. She's also volunteered to help coordinate the fight with her telepathy."

"Kickarse. She's a helpful lass, isn't she?"

"She's certainly a valuable ally."

"Valuable friend. Now go up there and get yer piggy-back ride goin'."

You're in the midst of listing appropriately-bombastic Bible quotes when showtime arrives. With a roll of your shoulders, you stroll down to the front door and wind up for a righteous boot before stopping yourself at the last minute. That is a really big scalpel Iosefka's running along Djura's ulna. Instead, you gently ease the door open and tiptoe for a good way before, after a quick check behind you to ensure distance, you begin your performance.

All groups in position. Simon has spotted and...neutralized an enemy spotter. Father Anderson has left the Chapel.

"'Immediately I saw another horse appear, deathly pale, and its rider was called Death, and Hades followed at its heels. They were given authority over a quarter of the earth, to kill by the sword, by famine, by plague and through wild beasts.'

"They're busy at the moment, but I'm happy ta pick up the slack. Come and get some, ye heathen sons o' bitches!"

Gently-glowing appetizers pour in from around nearby corners; at this point, you're so used to their movements that you don't even have to watch your bayonets land. You storm forward as they hit the ground, taking the opportunity to stomp on their heads before they vanish.

"Come on, ye wrinkly old bints! Ye wanted me, now ye've got me. Get those saggy tits in gear and take a swing!"

Casters approximately two hundred yards north of the chapel. Assault team will intercept in six seconds.

You grin as the summoned creatures continue to harass you, their masters seemingly unaware of how royally fucked they are. For the sake of variety, you pick one of the lankier ones up by the ankle and bludgeon the others with him until his skeleton finally gives out. With that done, you look up and see Ebrietas' tiny outline hovering in the moonlight.

Casters in full retreat. Four of ten neutralized. Five.

You are both proud of your associates' capabilities and annoyed that they're not going to leave any for you.

Fighters have emerged from Yahar'gul and are engaging recon team. Two casters within are summoning reinforcements. Original casters down to three.

You frown and look over towards where Eileen said the hideout was, looking for any sign of smoke. None seems forthcoming, but you start running towards the action regardless.

Recon team has recombined. Two casualties, no serious injuries. One surviving caster has made it through the entrance.

Sucks for them; up against Eileen, Steffon, and Simon at the same time? The bastards might as well be salmon trying to swim upstream past a horde of unusually-pointy bears. Your only regret is that you aren't there to witness the hilariously one-sided slaughter.

Casters retreating deeper into Yahar'gul. No further summons forthcoming. I think we won.

Gal's a born RTO, even with that slip-up there at the end. Can't blame her for being excited, though.

Father Anderson, further orders?

[] Pursue into Yahar'gul
-[] Join the pursuit squad yourself

[] Regroup at the chapel

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

Also, here's a short little omake to make up for the schedule slip. This was originally "That's a Bad Move, Little Ant" before I went back and retooled the concept. I may wind up making a small series out of this.

--

Praying here felt like cheating.

Without the endless chatter of life, without even the gentle touch and rustle of the wind, it was child's play for Isaac Netero to turn his gaze inwards and immerse himself in the placid waters he knew so well. He gave thanks to the martial arts that had followed him beyond death, had carried his indomitable will into this new world.

His knee twinged, a microscopic motion that the world's finest doctors would struggle to identify even with the finest camera equipment, and he frowned. The waters churned and boiled, but he remained submerged, drawing from his years on the mountain.

He'd gotten old. He'd gotten complacent. He'd let patterns slip into his attacks; not even one in a hundred, not even one in a thousand strikes, but they were there and he'd died because of them. Isaac Netero the martial artist cherished the fight against the unstoppable Ant King. Isaac Netero the man was furious that a newborn whelp with delusions of grandeur had gotten the best of him.

"Something the matter?"

The Chairman did not bother to turn around as the gently-creaking wheelchair approached, instead rising to his feet and looking out at the massive moon above.

"A bit of impatience on my part. I'm very eager for the rematch I told you of," he replied with a friendly smile.

Gehrman chuckled. "Still think you're in Hell, then?"

"It's either that or I have gravely misjudged both my character and his."

Netero crouched down and proceeded to stretch, though more for show than anything else. Old though it was, his body remained as limber as ever. Even the Chairman's joints knew better than to draw his ire.

"Has Yharnam's opposition not been up to your standards?" said Gehrman.

"Oh, here and there, but everything is a disappointment after that monster." He smirked and looked down towards the old caretaker. "Although perhaps I'm just not looking in the right places."

Gehrman acted oblivious for all of a second before seemingly realizing the pointlessness of the gesture. "Was it that obvious?"

Netero's smirk grew wider.

"I'm not working against you," said Gehrman.

"You're welcome to; it's more fun that way." Netero turned towards the Dream's myriad graves and strode away. "Don't worry, we don't have to do this right away. I don't know how long you've been in that chair and there's no point in fighting you if you're not at your best."

Gehrman had yet to reply by the time Netero knelt at a bustling grave and vanished from sight. The old master allowed his smirk to blossom into a true smile as he emerged once more in Yharnam's ruined streets.

It seems, King of the Ants, that you may have to wait as well.

 

[Tricia]

"Sounds like mission accomplished ta me," you say as Ebrietas swoops a bit closer. "High fives all around, then let's head home. If ye find one of the pricks still breathin', take 'im with us."

Ebrietas gives a nod, which due to the sheer scale involved covers quite a bit of distance, and wheels back towards the recon team, relaying your orders. You take a deep breath, then let it out slowly as you survey your path of destruction. The viscera cleanup will be annoying, but at this rate the real task will be pulling all of your leftover bayonets from the roads, walls, and occasionally ceilings after all is said and done. Somebody's going to turn an ankle on one of the things before long.

A victory jig might be excessive; maybe just a quick bayonet flourish and accompanying pelvic thrust will do.

"That's a bit premature, don't you think?"

You whirl to face the speaker, bayonets at the ready. Partway up the nearest facade sits a massive spider with the bald head and extraordinarily punchable face of a man, or possibly a bald and extraordinarily punchable man with the body of a spider depending on how you looked at it. His grin is not so much "shit-eating" as "owner and head chef of an international chain of shit buffets."

"A jorogumo? And here I was thinkin' I'd never finish that scavenger hunt," you reply, scraping your weapons together in anticipation.

"Not quite. The name's Patches, and you, my friend, are fucked."

Wait. Something's coming. Oh no oh no EVERYONE BACK TO THE CHAPEL NOW I'm sorry I didn't see them I'm sorry I'm sorry-

You turn to see Ebrietas diving towards the recon team. A massive six-fingered hand crests the just-visible peak of Yahar'gul's chapel hideout and you feel faint tremors as a familiar lattice rises into view.

"We were hoping you lot'd run all the way inside. It would have made things so much easier," says Patches. "Although with three of the Lesser Ones there and no place to run, I suppose it doesn't make too much difference."

You rear back and hurl a bayonet at him as hard as you can, only for him to burst out cackling as he slips around a corner and lets your projectile smack harmlessly into the wall. You look at the soon-to-be battleground and grit your teeth; you can't eyeball the distance from this angle and there's no telling whether Patches will gut you while you're prepping the teleport. You're going to have to get there on foot.

You rush through the winding streets, occasionally lowering your shoulder and making your own routes through the sub-par brickwork. Patches' skittering follows you along the way, always somewhere out of reach of your munitions.

"My lord went through a lot of trouble for this, you know. He usually leaves things to the Lesser Ones, so you should feel honoured that he's come to handle you personally."

The frankly excessive amount of gore in the Cathedral Plaza nearly makes you lose your footing. Patches leers at you from atop its central statue as you struggle to regain speed after slipping on a wayward kidney. "I think that's about far enough."

The world rumbles like a washing machine with a cinder block in it as a titanic form crashes down behind him. Seven spindly arms unfold as the creature looms over you; you're not sure if this one's different or you just miscounted last time. It's hard to say, considering that this one doesn't have the tentacle beard the other one did.

"Master cleric, I humbly introduce the Breaker of Loran and Lord of the Nightmare Frontier:"

The beasts slams its many hands into the cobbles and casually crushes gravestones to powder in its grip.

"AMYGDALA!"

BOSS BATTLE: AMYGDALA
​

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"What," you say, "am I supposed ta be intimidated by the big brother o' that thing I killed with an empty gas tank? Seems like ye replaced that tentacle beard with some brass balls." You pull out a pair of bayonets and twirl them with a manic grin. "How's about I rip those scrawny-ass arms off and ram 'em inta yer faceholes ta remind ye-"

An eruption of debris interrupts the hot fire you're spitting, forcing you to stagger back. The thing is tearing up the cobbles and graves and hurling them at you with murderous speed. You sidestep out of the line of fire, only for a pair of oversized palms to slam into your face. It's not much of a hit, as he got you right at the end of his reach, and you rear back to throw once Amygdala retracts them.

Except he doesn't. The two palms remain outstretched, blocking most of your view of his body. Attempts to juke them out prove ineffective, although you're confident that your killer spin move would have paid dividends had he not snuck forward behind them to bring the other five arms to bear. You hop out of an ear-splitting clap and deftly hurl your munitions before arm #5 can swat you out of the air.

The beast lets out a shriek as the blessed steel hits home, perforating the lattice and cleaving two of his many shoulders. The arms falter for a second and several of them return to home base to extract the offending implements. You take the opportunity to let more fly, reveling in the sounds of ribs and elbows parting like a much more literal "red" sea.

"Am I supposed ta be scared? Impressed? I dunno what's funnier, that ye think ye've got a chance or that ye think three o' ye is enough ta take out Eileen and the gang."

While he's reeling from the blows, hunching over and curling his limbs protectively around his head, you prepare to teleport; one laser blast to the head and an overhead smash behind it ought to do the trick. Hell, you might even finish this guy before Eileen canohfuck.

Amygdala, all however-many kilos of Amygdala, slams into you with the tackle to end all tackles. Time seems to slow for you as you careen through the air at a speed that is not at all conducive to a happy landing, seemingly to allow you the opportunity to reflect on your fuck-up. You were so focused on his arms that you didn't even notice those tree-trunk legs preparing to argjhkeajglekhg.

You wake up partway through the wall of a nearby building to the sound of your skull putting itself back together. Amygdala, being the unsportsmanlike fuck he is, doesn't wait for you to get your nervous system back in line before reaching through the you-shaped hole in the opposite wall and pulling you back into the open.

"No respect for architectural history," you slur as the bean-shaped head looks you over. Luckily, your shoulder is so horribly dislocated that you manage to free it from his grip and stab him in the knuckles before he finishes deciding whether to crush you or spike you like the world's angriest volleyball.

The one advantage of getting hit so hard recently is that the subsequent fall feels like a tickle in comparison. You mentally tell your knees to sit down and quit bitching as you stumble back towards the plaza. You're operating mostly on instinct at the moment; thankfully, it's a well-honed instinct, one that manages to read and avoid the earth-shattering punch that follows.

That trick won't work twice now that you know what to look for. As long as you stay on the inside, all you have to worry about are those telegraphed punches. Reach doesn't mean shit in a phone booth.

The necessary ligaments and tendons snap into place and your legs surge with strength, taking you beneath Amygdala's chest with sword drawn before the asymmetrical bastard can respond. With most of his arms splayed out in their standard configuration, you'll be able to split that pencil-thin waist of his in two by the time he's wound up.

He doesn't wind up. Palms crash into the cobbles at a furious pace, lacking the tectonic force of his earlier punch but still more than enough to turn your spine into an accordion if he lands clean. The hands follow you at just above head height as you beat a retreat, falling and rising with a murderous rhythm.

You leap back towards the plaza, away from the alleyway bottleneck, and Amygdala hurls himself after you. You sidestep his furious rush and turn to pick him off when he lands, only for him to dig his massive claws into the earth in midair and forcibly alter his trajectory. A monstrous fist, powered by that unearthly momentum, crushes most of your upper body and drives you into the ground.

"Ye overgrown fuckin' bonsai-"

Another punch crashes home and everything below your neck goes numb. Amygdala looms over you, two arms hanging limply and head dripping from your opening salvo, but doesn't follow up even as feeling worms its way back into your limbs.

"And here I was thinkin' ye weren't a sportsman."

I WANT YOU TO HURT.

"Oh."

The one back at the chapel only swung wild punches at you and tried to make space. The thing had probably never gone hand-to-hand with anything it couldn't just pick up and squish. This one, though, seems to know what the Hell he's doing.

You cough up a bit of blood and try to intimidate your ribs into going back inside more quickly. They don't seem to be having it. You can see Patches nearby on his back, either doing an unflattering impression of you or laughing his exoskeletal ass off. Could be both.

[] Write in...

--

CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Cracked skull, broken spine, broken ribs, damaged organs

Amygdala: Two arms damaged at the shoulder, moderate damage to head, superficial damage to elbows and ribs

 

[Tricia]

Okay, deep breaths. Never mind, shallow breaths until your lungs re-inflate. This is an opportunity to think without pesky things like functional nerve endings to distract you. You got cocky and now you're a pile of misplaced bone fragments and flattened organs. Shit happens; the important thing is to pick yourself up afterwards.

Poor choice of words.

Your body informs you that your spine is mostly recovered by way of agonizing pain and you forcefully tamp down your reflexive middle finger so as not to tip off the gargantuan fuckwaffle patiently waiting to squash you again. Everything's ready for a fresh start. Time to turn this pain train around to Righteousvictoryville, population: you.

You whip your exploding chain at Amygdala, who swats it out of the air before it has a chance to detonate. When he notices the pages and nails trailing behind it, however, he hops back. Rather than pursue, the very holy and very pointy cloud settles around you and you will a ward into bloom.

A familiar explosion booms out from the recon team's direction, followed by a seismic crash. Seems like Steffon's getting more and more accurate with that cannon.

You grit your teeth as Amygdala slams one of his point-blank palm strikes into the barrier, which shudders but holds firm. Just a few more seconds. Twenty meters, up and to your right. Another hit, this one a full-blown punch, leaves a sizable divot in your ward. Amygdala winds up, six-fingered fist rising a worrying distance into the moonlit sky, and and brings it down with a force vaguely reminiscent of a certain asshole's SR-71 adventure.

Your scattered pages bear you away from the resulting crater and coalesce in the building that Amygdala recently ventilated with your body. You watch as the many hands enter through the hole and prod around for you, followed shortly thereafter by the slowly-leaking lattice. You can hear but not see Patches scurrying about somewhere above you.

Close range is out unless you want him to play Whack-A-Mole with your face again. Long range is out unless you want him to shoot lasers at you and fling really heavy shit like a monkey with a serious fiber deficiency. Keep him guessing at mid-range and stop letting him dictate the pace.

"Ha! He's lost a leg! You hear me, master cleric? The man with the cannon's lost a leg!" The dreadfully obnoxious voice skitters in from somewhere several floors above. You are so going to enjoy picking his legs off one by one and hanging him outside the chapel like a piñata. Viscerally satisfying and fun for the whole family.

The next time Amygdala sticks his bean-like bonce for a look, you send him screaming back with a fresh set of bayonets in it. With a blind sweep, he tears through the stone wall without visible effort, but you're already on the ground and throwing. He staggers into the open under the barrage, allowing you the opportunity to slip past him and back to the plaza.

Amygdala's shriek when the explosive bayonets you left by his feet go off aren't quite as ear-piercing as you'd like. Seems like he's got the same iron legs his wimpy little brother had. You suppose if you're going to skip arm day as much as these guys have, you might as well work hard on the rest.

Rejuvenated, you give the beast your best grin. Four arms now hanging uselessly, unsteady on his feet, and leaking from the head like a teenager with a scorched earth policy towards his acne problem, you can almost feel Amygdala's fury like a physical force. You wonder whether he should have two giant angry eyebrows or a bunch of little ones for each of the eyes on his brain.

You reach into your sleeves for further munitions and the monster gallops after you, trailing blood and what composure he had. In one motion, you pull out the club and twist it like this, aiming down the sights. Amygdala hesitates at the sight of it and has no time to dodge in the ensuing stumble before you rake the beam across his head and torso.

Smoke, fire, and alien blood cascade from his form as he goes down in a heap, leaving a furrow wider than you are tall. One of his few functional hands makes a desperate grab at you as he skids by, only for you to mash all those spindly little bones into kindling with a heavy swing.

You legitimately can't tell how much of Amygdala is still attached, but he refuses to quit. The creature lunges for you with feral swipes, still capable of shattering stone like glass.

Huh. Maybe he did trade the tentacle beard for brass balls.

[] Write in...

--

CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Slight lingering head trauma, mild-to-moderate fatigue

Amygdala: Two arms fully functional, severe damage to head and torso

 

[Tricia]

As much fun as it would be to get inside and slap the bitch out of him now that he's reeling, there's a time and place for unnecessary grandstanding. Admittedly, that's most times and most places, but the furious death throes of a building-wrecking behemoth demand a bit of caution. You bring the club back up to your shoulder and pour on the hurt.

Amygdala's panicked weave takes his mangled head out of the firing line, but it's not enough to save the handful of arms that detonate at the shoulder and send him staggering back. As you wait for your weapon to cool, you see his eyes bulge and head twitch in familiar fashion. Before you finish tensing for a defensive leap, however, the expected beam misfires, sputtering and exploding just feet from its source.

"There's a pill for that," you mutter before firing again. Amygdala's massive legs give out on him beneath the onslaught and his final, desperate reach falls well short. Good thing, too; the offending hand carried a spatial distortion of some sort that gave you a headache just looking at it.

The once-great Breaker of Loran lies before you in a ravaged heap, unbroken will straining to move a broken body. For the sake of proper humiliation, you store the club and retrieve a bevy of explosive bayonets. You rear back to throw a bushel big enough to blow his head clean off that toothpick neck like a dandelion, then hesitate.

"Ye're fine with dyin' like this? No trash talk? No futile assertions o' yer divinity? Gimme somethin'."

Amygdala pulls what's left of his head clear of the rubble it's ensconced in and raises it as high as he can.

WON'T GIVE YOU THE SATISFACTION.

"Fair enough."

You throw. The mighty form stiffens, then collapses like a marionette as the last traces of the explosion drift away through the moonlit ruins.

PREY SLAUGHTERED
​

There's no trace of the eight-legged asswipe, neither sight nor sound. Eh, with that chrome dome, he shouldn't be too hard to find later on. You get the angle on the moonlight right and you could use him as a lighthouse. Ebrietas could probably spot him a mile-

Oh shit.

You shelve your thoughts on practical applications for little bald-headed twats and haul ass towards the recon team, taking care not to trip on the massive quantities of debris you left behind. Sadly, it looks as though no levers were caught in the crossfire.

Partway there, Ebrietas swoops past you at a terrific pace, gunning towards Oedon Chapel with Steffon and two Churchmen cradled in her hands. Her battered right wing struggles to keep her level and the stump of the same side's tentacle trails blood. You soldier on, shoving your fatigue into a metaphorical locker until it learns not to bother you with when you're busy.

The sight of three Mediocre Ones, all dead, greets you as you round the corner to face the School of Mensis' chapel hideout. One's head sports an entry and exit wound you could fit your whole torso through, while another is riddled with both arrows and smoking, fist-size holes all along its body. The third, also sporting an assortment of new piercings, looks as though it was rammed into an industrial-sized wood chipper face-first. You make sure to give each of the bodes a solid kick as you navigate through the tangle of dead limbs.

Eileen is seated against the wall, taking massive breaths with her mask in her hands. Two Churchmen whose names you didn't know lie beside her, clearly dead, and you can hear what sounds like another two looking around inside.

"Ye alright?" you ask Eileen. She looks up at you and tries to speak through her exhaustion, eventually settling for a thumbs-up. Her heavy cloak sports multiple gouges, though the exposed skin seems untouched. Blood vials may be bullshit, but they're useful bullshit.

Alexandria steps out from within the building, visibly limping. As she gives you a bow, you note that her left arm ends in a stump.

"All hostiles eliminated, Father Anderson. Ebrietas is taking Steffon, Andrew, and Elise to Doctor Iosefka for treatment of injuries that blood vials alone can't repair. Tobias and Soren fell in battle. Both fought bravely."

"Everyone did," Eileen manages to gasp. Alexandria staggers to her side and works to help get her breathing under control.

"Alex beat one of them with her stump," says Johnathan as he steps into the open. "Saw the whole thing."

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"Takes a mighty brave soul ta try the ol' Nub Club trick in the middle o' battle. Well done, lass."

Alexandria beams at you, still guiding Eileen through some breathing exercises. Your feathery friend looks like she's about reached her limit, though you'll wait until your further out of stabbing distance before bringing that up.

"Anyway, as someone with a bit o' experience in the field, I can say there's only one thing ta do after winnin' a fistfight with giant spider monsters."

"And that is?"

"High-fives all around."

Johnathan and Alexandria each give your palm solid thwacks. Alexandria helpfully raises Eileen's hand high enough for the five.

"So, what all happened? Saw one o' the pricks comin' over the buildin' right before their big brother showed up ta have a word with me."

"One came over the building," says Johnathan, raising a clarifying finger. "The other two jumped out from somewhere closer to the Grand Cathedral to cut off our retreat. One of them hung back and let the others pincer us, firing off this explosive beam any time we tried to get around the killzone."

He motions towards the smoking furrows strewn about the area. Such a shame; that was some healthy fucking grass. Hopefully, one of the Churchmen has a green thumb.

You chastise yourself for then thinking "and hopefully it wasn't one of Alexandria's."

"Anyway, Simon lays into them with arrows right away and that slows them down. Then Ebrietas comes down and just cannons into the one hanging back. At this point, the two in melee are having trouble staying out of each other's way and one of them hesitates long enough for Steffon to put a cannonball through its head."

"Kickass."

"For a few seconds. Then the other one realizes it can cut loose. It manages to crush Elise's legs and Andrew's ribs before taking off Steffon's leg, Alexandria's hand, and Tobias' head with a beam. Soren gets squashed trying to close the distance, but that makes an opening for Eileen to have a go at its head."

He points towards the one that looks like it had a lawnmower facial and the pieces fall into place. You turn towards Eileen, eyes wide.

"Ye did that with knives?"

She nods, grinning.

"Ye're a fuckin' beast."

"And don't you forget it," she says.

You turn back to Johnathan. "What happened next?"

"So after that one goes down, we see Ebrietas and the third one just tearing each other apart. She backs off when it nearly rips one of her wings off, then summons this storm of stars that punch clear through the thing. Over in an instant. Afterwards, she scoops up the ones that need actual surgical care and flies off to take them to Doctor Iosefka." He shakes his head. "It's refreshing to have the ones you worship answer your prayers directly like that."

"She's a good person."

"Better than most of the ones without tentacles I've met," he replies.

You look towards the two bodies, both badly mangled.

"Any rites I can do for the deceased?"

"We'll have Todd or one of the others in the Chapel lay them to rest," says Alexandria, "but thank you."

"Fair enough." Tempting as it is, now's probably not the time to insist on a proper Catholic funeral service. You can always go back and do it later, anyway.

You give the corpses another look-over, admiring your companions' work, and another brilliant, world-changing idea takes form in that much-abused head of yours.

It's probably your imagination, but you think Eileen flinched the second that notion crossed your mind.

You turn towards Alexandria. "What would ye say ta some kickass giant monster prosthetics?"

She raises an eyebrow. "What, like attach its entire hand?"

"Not necessarily, unless ye wanna be the queen o' thumb wars. I know a guy who can work miracles with this shit." You pull out your club for reference. "This thing shoots explosion lasers. Think about it; laserhand."

"I'll, er, think about it," Alexandria replies.

"Take yer time." While she's thinking about it, you can puzzle out the logistics of Steffon firing a laser leg. Your current solution involves Djura picking him up and aiming him like a ballerina.

Speaking of precision violence...

"One last order o' business before we head back and regroup: the fucker I fought had a hype man; big ugly bald prick with a spider for a body. He ran off somewhere durin' all the fuss. Anyone up for huntin' 'im down with extreme prejudice?"

Johnathan raises his hand. Alexandria shakes her head.

"Got clipped during the fight and still can't run. You two go on ahead."

You nod and, with Johnathan in tow, head back towards the plaza, scrutinizing your surroundings for any hint of pencil-dicked arachnid.

"So you fought their leader?" asks Johnathan.

"Aye. Those ones you fought are called 'Lesser Amygdalas.' One I fought was Original Recipe Amygdala. Eleven herbs and spices, surprisingly-little salt."

"What?"

"Nothin'. Anyway, we had a proper donnybrook; he headbutted me through a buildin', I lasered 'im in the face. Not too different from some o' the more spirited arguments I've had in the past, really."

Sphinxes are very big on literal ad hominem once you start arguing semantics.

The two of you find Amygdala's body untouched by crows or anything else; "greater" doesn't necessarily mean "tastier," apparently. You take a moment to make sure Patches isn't hiding underneath him or in one of the many craters the two of you left behind. Johnathan, meanwhile scouts nearby buildings.

After about a minute's search, you hear skittering from the third floor of Johnathan's current target. You turn to see the spider of the hour scurry through a window, strained smile on his face.

"Master cleric! Congratulations on your victory. Never doubted you for a moment. I told Amygdala, I said to him: 'You watched him defeat the Lesser One; you'd best stay away from him.' But he didn't listen to Trusty Patches, no sir."

He's got a knack for this, you have to admit. Those Jehovah's Witness pests could learn a thing or two from him about fast-talking.

"But you're smarter than that, aren't you? You know that I've got plenty to offer a clever, resourceful man like yourself. At reasonable prices, of course.

"I've never raised a hand towards you, master cleric; what say we let bygones be bygones, put aside our differences to enjoy a mutually-beneficial partnership?"

[] Kill him

[] Kill him

[] Kill him

[] Don't kill him
-[] Just kidding kill him

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You crease your brow and cup your chin with your fingers, attempting to project the image of Alexander Anderson, Master Businessman. You also make sure to think Michael Douglas thoughts, just in case.

"I'm gonna want specifics on what ye've got ta offer." Johnathan looks askance at you and you attempt to tell him to roll with it through the medium of circular hand motions.

"Oh, this and that. Blood vials, poison antidotes, upgrade materials for your weapons; you name it and Trusty Patches can get it for you."

"That does sound useful," you reply. "But what's the catch?"

"No catch at all! You get supplies and I get a steady customer. Not many folks in Yharnam with the life expectancy to be long-term patrons."

"We'll want a 20% discount from yer standard prices."

Patches' eyes light up. You can almost hear the stereotypical cash register noise as he undoubtedly inflates the shit out of said prices, visibly struggling to maintain a neutral expression.

"The best I can do is 15," he says. Gotta stay in-character, after all.

"17 or I walk."

"Deal."

You extend a hand and watch his newfound smile tremble. A few of his legs twitch in random directions.

"There a problem?" you say.

"Err, no, of course not. It's just that..."

"Look, Patches, a proper partnership's gotta be built on trust. The fact that I'm even offerin' a handshake should mean a lot after what happened earlier."

You can see the epic battle between greed and self-preservation play out in Patches' facial features. Hesitantly, he scuttles down the building, flinching at your every twitch. Johnathan watches from several steps away with his hand hovering over his gun. Smile clinging to his face for dear life, he extends one of his front legs and you give it a hearty shake.

"Actually," you say, "I just thought of a couple more conditions."

"Oh?" he replies while surreptitiously trying to pull free of your grip.

"First of all, die."

You pull him towards you, grab onto another of his legs, and rip the both of them off in a spray of ichor. You cut his scream short by grabbing his head and delivering a concussive butt, then drive a knee into his chin with a satisfying crunch. As his jaw lolls, clearly broken, you grab hold of another leg.

"This little piggy went ta the market."

Tear, scream, next leg.

"This little piggy stayed home."

Tear, scream, next leg.

"And this little piggy fucked with the wrong fuckin' Catholic."

You thwack him a few times with that one before tossing it away, then dangle the nearly-comatose asshole in front of a horrified-looking Johnathan. "Still got a few legs left if ye wanna have a go. It's real satisfyin'."

Johnathan shakes his head, reconsiders, and then plucks off one of the remaining three legs.

"That's the spirit."

You grab the remaining two and twirl the now-lighter Patches around before indulging in one of your favorite pastimes: metronomic man mashing. Sadly, despite him being much more streamlined than before, you subsequently fail to even approach your personal best in competitive bitch toss. You've been struggling ever since Maxwell insisted that you practice with dummies instead of underperforming Iscariot recruits.

You stroll over to the slowly-twitching heap of regret and give him your smuggest grin. "Have ye learned yer lesson about dishonest business practices?"

"Uh-huh."

"And do ye now understand the consequences o' throwin' yer lot in with giant heathen spiders from beyond the fourth dimension or whatever?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good," you say, raising your club. "Class dismissed."


You stroll back to Johnathan, whistling and tossing your blood-spattered weapon from hand to hand. He seems suitably impressed by your elite negotiation skills.

"A strong handshake'll take ye places."

[] Head back to Eileen and Alexandria

[] Head back to the chapel

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

While Johnathan stares in grim fascination at your handiwork, you figure now would be a good time to take stock of the situation. Things have calmed down after that little clusterfuck and you should work out where to go from here.

Patches? Squashed.
Actually-Pretty-Decent One? Styled on.
Eileen, Alexandria, and the wounded? In Ebrietas' capable tentacles.

Hm, you should probably check up on your biggest disciple soon. She's a sensitive sort.

For now, though, it seems like you have time to get to the important things, like carving this spindly fuck into material for weapons, armor, tasteful decorations, and whatever else you can come up with. Just tossing it out there but a cross made of its arms would be metal as fuck.

You replace the club with your sword and stroll over towards the choice bits on Amygdala's mostly-unbungled legs and tail.

"What are you doing?" Johnathan asks after a few practice chops.

"What, ye never field-dressed anything before? Got a whole mess o' plans for this guy. I'm still confident I can sell Alex on the laserhand thing."

"She usually prefers Alexandria," he mutters. Then, more loudly, "Anything I can do to hep out?"

"If ye've got a blade ye don't mind dullin', ye're welcome ta take a swing. I'll get 'is legs and tail if ye'll get the arms."

You continue whacking away as Johnathan scrounges up a few blades from the casualties of your assault on the Grand Cathedral. Before long, he's going to town on Amygdala's many shoulders. This could be a good bonding opportunity.

"So," you say as you work through the base of the beast's tail, "got any ideas for what would look good on ye? Any motif ye're lookin' at?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, ye're not exactly the most intimidatin' sort, so I figure some badass armor'd help with that. And ye've gotta have a motif or the whole thing just falls apart. Eileen's got the crow thing and I think Djura's goin' for a wolf theme. We could probably whip up some kinda spider look out o' this guy. Catch evildoers in the web o' righteousness."

"I've got a motif, though. The whole priest thing."

"Well, yeah, but so do all yer mates." The tail comes off with a sound like Iscariot's bimonthly lobster night. "Plus, I'm pullin' it off better than the lot o' ye."

You move on to the left leg and listen to the assorted profanities of Johnathon struggling with a stubborn collarbone. Now that you think about it, it would probably have been easier to borrow one of the Powder Kegs' saws for this, but they're both indisposed at the moment. In any case, you hum happily as you fall into a rhythm.

"You really think I'm not intimidating?" says Johnathan after a brief while.

"Well, ye're fine compared to a normal person, but next ta Eileen, the Kegs, or me? Not even close. Ye're a bit behind Liam, I'd say."

"How is that a fair comparison? Liam's like two and a half meters tall."

"Hey, I've seen plenty o' gangly bastards that couldn't scare a toddler. He's got loomin' down to an art. Sure, his eyebrows could use a trim, but that's not a dealbreaker."

"Whatever you say."

Working together, it doesn't take you long to produce a nice pile of crafting material, which you shove up your sleeve. Johnathan does not comment.

"Think that'll do it," you say.

"I saw Ebrietas drop a few people off, then take Eileen and Alexandria back to the chapel while you were chopping up the leg," Johnathan replies. "We'd talked about setting up a barricade outside the Mensis hideout."

Maybe the idea of Ebrietas Public Transport could be worth looking into after all this.

[] Check on the barricade

[] Go back to the chapel
-[] Talk to
--[] Who?

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"Let's go grab Soren and Tobias and we'll be off," you say. "Should probably see how everyone's doin' after that clusterfuck."

"Works for me."

The two of you stroll back towards ground zero. Before long, you run into a handful of Churchmen carefully erecting a barricade at the chokiest point around, stacking up whatever debris they can find. There's even some intact furniture in there, likely scavenged from one of Cathedral Ward's countless abandoned homes. You sidestep a particularly menacing futon and tap on the shoulder of the nearest builder, who spins around to reveal herself as the burly lady you met during Rosemary's ordeal in the stockades.

"Good to see you again, Father. Ebrietas filled us in on what happened. Nice work."

"Same ta you; barricade's lookin' right indefatigable. Think ye could fit some spikes in somewhere?"

"Maybe," she replies. "Still lots of weapons lying around from all the fighting. Mind if we use some of your leftover bayonets?"

"Go ahead; damn things are a trippin' hazard at this point."

"Excellent." She looks over to your companion and waves. "'lo, Johnathan."

"Hey, Claire. Just here to pick up Soren and Tobias."

"We moved 'em over here before we got started." She points over to the least-constructed portion of their project, where two familiar bundles lie. "I appreciate you guys coming back for them; I'm not sure how much more Ebrietas can carry at this point."

"Glad to help," you say. You and Johnathan wave goodbye and walk over to the bodies. You hoist one onto each shoulder, then offer your companion one of them at his insistence and trot off towards home base. Man, you guys have done a number on the streets; there's going to be a lot of carriage horses taking a trip behind the barn when all's said and done.

Despite your burdens, you make good time back to Oedon Chapel, seating the bodies near the front door. The ground floor is much less chaotic than you expected; though your battered compatriots occupy a good number of beds, things appear to be flowing smoothly. Iosefka herself is still tending to Djura, while other noncombatant Churchmen bustle from patient to patient as needed. You can see Alexandria gripping the sides of her bed tightly and taking deep breaths as one doctor holds her down and the other grabs hold of her hips. At her nod, the latter shunts her pelvis back into place with an agonizing crack.

Alexandria kills her scream in under half a second.

Nearby, a very anemic-looking Arianna waves weakly at you, an IV running from her arm to a blood vial. As it nears fullness, a Churchman removes it, caps it, and puts another in its place.

"Are you still good?" he asks.

"I can do one more," she replies. "Then I'll need to rest for a bit. Could you bring me some water?"

"I'll get it," you volunteer, and hand her a tin. She drains half of it in a single pull and puts it on her armrest with a sigh.

"They need that special blood o' yers?"

"They do, indeed," she says. "It's the least I can do. I'm glad you're still in one piece, Father."

"Takes a lot more than a giant spider monster with a bone ta pick ta keep Alexander Anderson down."

She smiles, eyes drooping. "I apologize; I don't think I'll be a good conversation partner for much longer."

"Nah, it's fine. Take care o' yerself."

You stay nearby and watch Iosefka work, while Johnathan takes a seat beside Alexandria's bed. They're pretty cute together, you have to admit, although you're not sure how much Todd will approve of being his best friend's third wheel.

Iosefka removes a set of forceps from deep within Djura's arms and plops a small white fragment into a dish full of them. With that done, she instructs Emma and Fiddle to hold tightly to his arm and injects him with a blood vial. The old man's arm twitches unsettlingly, dutifully restrained by her assistants, before eventually gong still. The Doctor picks up his forearm and prods it with various instruments before setting it back down with a smile. She nods towards the girls, whose smiles manage to stretch past the masks their wearing.

"He all fixed up?" you ask as you approach. The kids wave at you, gloves hands covered with far too much ick for any more intimate form of greeting.

"For the most part," the doctor replies. You can see sweat trickling down her face as she dumps her gloves and pulls off her mask. "The goal of surgery is to get the body to a state where a blood vial will heal it completely and properly. I managed to get enough bone shards out of Djura's arm for the ulna and radius to regrow and reconnect without any extraneous side effects. It'll be a while before he's got the energy to be up and running."

"And a much shorter while before he tries gettin' up anyway. How are supplies?"

"Still holding," she says. Fiddle brings her some water, which she takes gratefully. "I had anticipated this kind of volume, and with Arianna offering her blood, it'll be a while before we run short on vials."

"That's a relief," you say. You survey the other beds; Steffon's hooked up to an IV, his left leg ending in a stump above the knee. Eileen, cloak and boots lying in a pile beside her bed, is flat on her back and dozing softly.

Her undershirt gives a view of her abs and biceps. They are most rad.

"How are the others?" you ask Iosefka.

"Stable. Steffon somehow didn't go into shock and the blood vials healed up his burns. Alexandria tells me the rest of his leg was destroyed, which means he's going to have to live with the damage. Eileen's simply exhausted. Her body can't keep up with her anymore." She points towards the other beds sequentially. "Alexandria will be fine now that they've realigned her hips. Elise is going to need a lot of surgery before we can regrow her femurs, but Andrew's in good shape. His ribs broke in such a way that there was limited hemorrhaging. I'm very thankful some of the others from the Church had surgical experience as well."

"Ye've done an amazin' job yerself. All o' ye," you add, ruffling the girls' hair. "Ebrietas upstairs?"

"As far as I know."

"I'm gonna go check up on 'er, then."

"Alright. Fiddle, would you mind getting us some fresh gloves? We'll be working on Elise next."

Her tiny assistant zips off, ribbon bobbing as she goes. Emma looks up at you, her stern features softer than you've seen before.

"Thank you again. For protecting us."

"I'm here ta help. Always. What brought that on?"

"Alexandria and the others told us about all you did, all the things you fought for people you had barely met."

You kneel down. "It was the right thing ta do. Too few good people around ta not protect the ones ye find."

She embraces you as hard as she can. Small as she is, she's definitely Gascoigne's daughter, and your ribs creak in protest.

"Thank you."

"Ye're worth it."

Emma only disengages when her sister returns, bearing several passibly-sterile gloves. The two fall in behind Iosefka and walk over to another bed, leaving you with the comatose Djura.

The fucker snores. You are going to dangle that over his head until he shoots it off.

The roof's more sparsely-populated than when you left, its prior inhabitants hard at work down below. Ellis remains at the gun, while Liam follows Ebrietas' approach with his eyes. The Daughter of the Cosmos touches down with nary a sound, depositing Simon. The ragged archer nods in greeting on his way downstairs.

I was going to pick up Simon last, but I saw you and Johnathan carrying the bodies back, so I went ahead and got him.

"I'm sure he appreciated that. Was probably gettin' pretty antsy wherever ye left him."

She looks down and you take the opportunity to look her over. Her right wing hangs in tatters, while the two tentacles on the same side terminate in stumps of different lengths. The rest of her body is scored with cuts and gouges, presumably from the Mediocre One's claws. You open your mouth to ask how she is when she speaks up.

I'm sorry. I couldn't sense any of them until they appeared. I should have been able to.

"Ye've been in a fuckin' basement for God knows how long while they've been out dickin' around and practicin' how not ta be seen. Not yer fault."

But I should have been able to. It's something I'm good at.

"Ye did fine, Ebrietas."

Two people who trusted me died. She's starting to tremble, her massive form shaking to such an extent that the nearby Liam nearly loses his footing. You gave me a chance and I messed up and I wasn't honest with you and-

"Hey, hey, it's alright. It's alright. What d'ye mean?"

You told me about Jesus and how he saves people if they believe and I've been trying really hard to believe but I've seen so much and know so much about the cosmos and beings that call themselves gods. When you asked me to judge Rosemary, I asked you what Jesus would do because I knew it would make you happy and I didn't want you to hate me. I don't want to be left alone again.

[] Write in...