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

[Tricia]

Also, here's the promised omake; little shorter than I thought it would be coming in, so apologies for that. Dark Souls 3 was terrific, by the way.

Spoiler: Slight spoilers for some of the people mentioned in the opening cinematic

Maria's long internment had tuned her into the Research Hall's gentle flux. Every creak, every scream, every slight disturbance told her a story, as though her consciousness had abandoned her bloodied form in favor of the great structure.

The stories they told now were ones of war.

Half a dozen men pounding through the halls with military precision. Any who engaged were cut down in seconds. The plaintive wailing she had tuned out so long ago returned, heavy with newfound panic.

The roar of Gatling fire slowed their charge, though only briefly. Faced with a stairway to nowhere, the six split off in various directions. It took them just three minutes to locate the contraption necessary to raise the central staircase and link it with the Lumenflower Gardens.

The Failures, so bold in their base stupidity, didn't stand a chance. The men tore them to pieces as fast as they could rise, not even giving them a chance to unleash their heavenly storm. She supposed that only fitting. She rose to her feet, unused and unaging joints protesting weakly. There would be no surprise, no theatrics this time around, not against foes this determined. Rakuyo felt alive at her touch, eager to prove itself once more, and its weight in her hands felt as natural as any other limb.

Two of the intruders shoved the heavy doors open and the other four marched in. Each held a colossal greatsword in his dominant hand, showing no signs of discomfort with the weight, and a small, oddly-shaped dagger in the other. Even their casual walk spoke of years of combat experience, never out of position for a brutal counter.

Maria stepped down from her throne, her nose almost level with the squadron's conical helms. Rakuyo sang as she flourished it in her one concession to showmanship.

None of the warriors took a fighting stance. In fact, they seemed almost flustered as they went into a huddle. Maria couldn't make out the rushed discussion, although she did notice the shove they gave one of their taller members. He walked towards her, reached into some recess of his armor, and produced a quill, inkwell, and slip of vellum. He held them out and spoke in a powerful tenor.

"Could we get your autograph?"

 

[Tricia]

You put a hand on Ebrietas' drooping shoulder. You may be a warrior zealot with the body count of a medium-sized natural disaster, but you're still a preacher at heart. After a few steps back to ensure that she can see you properly, you preach.

"The reason we put our faith in the lord ain't because He went around tellin' everyone He had the secrets ta the cosmos, lass. It's because He showed us what was best in us before He went on the cross and died for our sins. If ye're lookin' for God in the stars and the planets, ye won't find Him. Ye'll find Him in the goodness of those around ye.

"Besides, He ain't gonna blame ye. Ye've known about Him for, what, a few hours now? Some people spend their whole lives searchin' for answers. That's what we men of the cloth are for, ta hear yer confessions and yer burdens in His place so that ye can rest easy in yer penance. Know that Jesus loves ye and that the LORD always forgives."

Always?

"If yer heart's true, and I'd say it is, always."

"For what it's worth," Liam offers, "I'm with him on that one."

She straightens up a bit, sending her head a meter or so upwards, but her posture remains less-than-ideal. You're still not entirely certain whether she has a spine, but if she does, she's going to regret that in the long run.

"We're here for ye, Ebrietas. All of us." You grin. "And only one of us got press-ganged into it."

I just, she begins, and you get the impression of a heaving breath, I'm just so scared. The others left me behind. The Choir used me. And now I'm here with you and you're so devoted to something I can't live up to. I'm sorry I can't be what you want me to be. Please don't leave.

"What I want ye ta be is happy. I told ye about the LORD because I figured that was the best way ta go about it. Knowin' there's someone up there who loves me has kept me goin' more times than I can count. I'm not gonna leave because ye decided ta think for yerself."

She shuffles a little closer to you. She really is a child, you realize. Older than you can fathom, more traveled than you could ever hope to be, but a child nonetheless. One without a family.

"I'll be here, okay? So will Liam and Eileen and all the others. Every step ye take is yer own, but we'll be here ta guide ye if ye want. Heal up and get some rest; ye've already done more good than ye know."

Okay, she murmurs after a brief silence. She slithers towards an unoccupied corner of the roof and, with an almost audible hiss of released tension, faceplants in classic Flair fashion. Judging by the fact that her head did more damage to the roof than vice-versa and that Liam is gently patting her on the back instead of freaking out, you figure that's just her way of relaxing.

Whatever works, you suppose. It's not like you haven't done the same thing, albeit on significantly softer surfaces.

[] Go to
-[] The Dream
-[] Yahar'gul
-[] Byrgenwerth
-[] The Nightmare

[] Talk to
-[] Who?

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You decide to let the girl have her rest, leaving her in Liam's capable and extremely large hands. With Iosefka and the Church surgeons patching everyone up, now's as good a time as any for a pit stop in the Dream. You're a bit overdue, what with your clothes saturated with blood and the powdered remains of multiple buildings.

Once on the ground floor, you walk over to Simon, who is sitting next to Djura's bed.

"Off ta the Dream, if anyone asks."

"Understood."

Hope is, as is often the case, unconscious on her little ledge. As with Ebrietas, you wonder whether she has a spine, because that cannot be comfortable and what few chiropractic tricks you have hinge on the subject having a musculoskeletal system. The little ones are clustered near her feet, intently scanning her open Bible and, as far as you can tell, fighting over who gets to turn the pages.

In any case, this gives you another opportunity to hone your stealth. Catlike, in the sense that you delight in mauling things and occasionally destroy priceless heirlooms, you creep past her and into the Workshop. The empty Workshop. You spend a few moments searching for candlesticks or other classic secret-chamber-opening devices.

No luck on that front, although you do find a book entitled "How to Pick Up Fair Maidens." You skim it before heading out, noting its insistence on fashionable pantaloons and firm assertion that women are powerless before sufficiently-fancy headwear.

You find Gehrman in his garden once again, a pile of weapons by his side. As you watch, he takes one from the stump full of Messengers and gives them another one, grinning as they run their hands over it with palpable awe.

"Before you arrived, they were the only ones in a long while who could properly appreciate my work," he says. "So, brought back any other legends to bury? Still plenty of room in the field."

"Can't rush art," you reply. "I have got some parts from Amygdala 'imself, though, fresh from 'is steamin' corpse."

"Do you, now? How did he compare with the one I made your club out of?"

"Smarter, stronger, faster, a little less of a bitch overall. Was classy enough ta have someone announce all 'is titles beforehand instead o' prattlin' on about 'em."

"Very efficient; I respect that. What titles were those, if you don't mind my asking?"

"'Breaker o' Loran' and 'Lord o' the Nightmare Frontier'. Pretty solid, I'd say. Eight out o' ten."

He seems to ponder this for a second before speaking. "Well, that explains quite a bit. I'd wondered why I stopped meeting Hunters out of Loran; a Great One with delusions of grandeur is as good an explanation as any."

"Wasn't that Izzy person ye mentioned from Loran?"

"That, she was."

"Fuck, that's a bad style matchup for someone who wants ta go hand-ta-hand."

"Everything was a bad style matchup for Izzy. It was how she liked it. Now," he says, wheeling to face you, "I believe there's a fascinating story behind all this that you've yet to pass along."

"Eh," you shrug. "He kicked the shit out o' me, I got back up and lasered 'im in the face after stabbin' 'im a bunch. Pretty straightforward, all things considered. Wish I could get one o' the posse here; the mad bastards fought three o' the damn things while I was busy and won. Maybe I can get one of 'em ta write an autobiography and bring it here. Hell, a ballad'd work, so long as ye don't mind a cappella." You wonder if you could teach the Messengers to beatbox.

"That does sound like a better story," he says. "No offense, of course."

"None taken."

"Any casualties?"

"Two Church Hunters dead. Steffon lost a leg, another Hunter lost a hand, Ebrietas got torn up somethin' awful, and Eileen finally ran out o' steam for the night."

"Ebrietas fought? Two Great Ones in hand-to-hand combat and you missed it?"

"No need ta rub it in. I'm sad people died, I'm sad others got hurt, but the whole thing was so fuckin' awesome. Ye bastards should o' been inventin' the camera instead o' all this blood nonsense."

"The what?"

"Ye point it at things and it takes a picture. Useful for when ye want a memento of a fight but don't have time ta chop off a head. Or," you say with a conspiratorial eyebrow, "for when ye want a picture of a fair maiden ye plan on pickin' up."

He gives you a deadpan look, heedless of your continued eyebrow waggling.

"I don't care how you try to blackmail me, I'm not telling you what the shovel does."

"Oh, come on!"

[] Continue talking to Gehrman

[] Leave the Amygdala bits in the Workshop
-[] Suggestions for things to make
-[] "Surprise me."

[] Leave the Dream
-[] Go to
--[] The Nightmare
--[] Byrgenwerth
--[] Yahar'gul

 

[Tricia]

Your brilliant gambit thus thwarted, you turn on your heels towards the Workshop.

"Gonna go drop off the loot inside; got some plans ta run by ye if ye're interested."

"With you? How couldn't I be?" He wheels himself along in your wake, literally hauling ass at an impressive clip. Once at his workbench, he performs the rubbing-of-hands ritual endemic to excited craftsmen as you fish around your sleeves for the massive chunks of Amygdala you gathered. You plop them down in front of him with a teeth-rattling thump that, to your chagrin, knocks a few of his meticulously-organized weapons out of place.

"My bad."

"Eh, I'm grateful for any excuse to tidy up. It passes the time. So," he says with a clap, "what were you thinking?"

"Few things. First off, some combat-worthy prostheses for Steffon and Alexandria, the woman who lost a hand. They're about yea high and pretty ripped."

"That's not very specific."

"I could either bring ye their measurements or ye could be a bit generous with the size and let the doctors in the Chapel work on the fit, yer choice."

"There's plenty of material here and some left over from the first one you killed; I could give you prototypes and adjust them after they've tried them on."

"Shame they can't follow me here."

"Yes," he replies. "Yes, it is. What else is on the table?"

"Oh, ye're gonna love this one. See, I've had me a bout o' divine inspiration. Amygdala managed ta knock my arse through some buildings, and while my head was knittin' itself back together, all I could think of was how I'd love ta share that experience with others. So, my idea was that ye could spring load these beauties so I could launch 'em from my sleeves and smack heathens inta next week. I'll even lend ye some crosses ta make proper knuckle dusters out of."

He leans back and ponders, miming out inscrutable operations as he does. "So long as you take care of the requisite spatial bullshit, it seems like a decent plan. I could probably braid the muscle fibers together into a high-tension spring. The recoil would be tremendous and cocking the things would be a pain in the ass, but I can make it work." He picks up a mostly-intact arm and twirls a knife in his other hand in decidedly unsafe fashion.

"Knew I could count on ye," you say as you dump a load of crosses onto an unoccupied portion of his workbench.

"You learn quickly. Go on back and leave me to it."

A quick and stealthy journey to the necessary grave later and you're back on the ground floor, surrounded by the injured and heavily medicated. Simon's still where you last saw him, looking over the unconscious Djura, and you stroll over to him.

"I'm headin' back ta the Nightmare, if ye'd care ta join me."

"Might as well," he replies. "The only good I could do here is hold Djura down when he wakes up and decides to do something stupid."

"I'm sure Iosefka's got the good drugs ta take care o' that."

"True."

The two of you make your way to the roof and towards Ebrietas, who remains ensconced in her crater. You retrieve the fucked-up eye from your stash and present it to her.

"I know I told ye ta rest, but would ye mind sendin' us back ta the Nightmare? Still got some business there."

Mmgghphf, she grumbles.

"Thanks."

Conveniently, she deposits you in Ludwig's little butcher house, much to the detriment of your just-cleaned boots. Simon has the right idea; his clothes are such a fucking wreck that a bit of extra blood does nothing to his overall aesthetic.

"Onward?" you say.

"Onward."

A rhythmic thumping scores your entrance into the next hall, one which you recognize from much experience with frustrated recruits as the classic thumping of head on wall. The hallway is lined with cell doors, the sole free occupants a tall man and wheelchair gunner that you dispose of from long distance.

The nearest cell houses the source of the sound: a mid-sized man in Eastern-style garb fighting a losing battle with one of the walls. There's quite a bit of blood running from the head-shaped dent he's steadily deepening. As he whacks away, he intones an odd mantra.

"Shrouded by night, but with steady stride. Colored by blood, but always clear of mind.
Proud hunter of the church.
Beasts are a curse, and a curse is a shackle.
Only ye are the true blades of the church."

It is not, sadly, in time with his wall-whacking. This peeves you.

"Old Hunter Yamamura, if I'm not mistaken," says Simon. "Almost a legend. Unexplained disappearance, just like so many others."

"Should we help him?" you ask.

"Might as well try, at least."

You boot the door open, enjoying the metallic clank of the lock exploding. Yamamura does not respond, no matter how many times you poke him or wave a hand in front of his face in as aggravating a fashion as you can manage.

"I mean, he's made some solid progress through the wall," you say. "Wouldn't wanna throw off his groove."

"I suppose."

You step back into the hall, still pondering whether or not his screed is supposed to rhyme. You choose to assume it's not; otherwise, he rhymed "church" with "church" and that's a beating-worthy offense.

A man with a massive pick attempt to ambush you midway through the hall, earning an arrow through the face from your traveling companion for his trouble. As you pull it free and toss it back to Simon, helpfully shouting "catch" as it flies, you hear a chuckle from a nearby side passage.

"New blood, eh? Tell me, do you hear the toll of the bell?"

[] Answer
-[] Yes
-[] No
-[] What's it to you?

[] Go check it out

[] Just keep walking

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"Have ye heard of our LORD and Saviour, Jesus Christ?"

"...What?"

"Ye asked a question, I asked a question. We're havin' a dialogue."

"Answer my question."

"Answer mine first."

"Are you being serious right now? Do you hear the bell or not?"

"Who wants ta know?"

"I do, you tit."

"I don't consider that a compellin' argument."

The very familiar sound of someone trying and failing to suppress a scream through clenched teeth fills the hall. Simon slinks slightly back towards where you came, perhaps trying to stay out of range of your weaponized annoyingness.

"Look," the unseen man huffs, "you got past Ludwig. I can only assume you intend to keep going. For your own sake, don't. There's nothing worth finding. Some things are best left buried."

You frown, the moment gone. "And what if, perchance, I acknowledge yer advice but choose ta ignore it?"

"Then you'll die. Maybe by Maria's hand, maybe by mine. Even here, the Church protects its secrets."

You and Simon follow his voice down the passage, ultimately reaching a locked cell door. Through the bars, you see a seated man glaring at you beneath a cowl of beast hide. His wrecked room shows no signs of food or, more worryingly, anywhere to poop. You'd think they'd at least leave the guy a bucket.

Focus. You can ponder heathen digestion fuckery later.

"I killed the Church," you reply. "Salted the fuckin' earth it left behind, too."

"There goes your reason for prying any further, then."

"If you're referring to the Church abducting and experimenting on the unwilling," Simon interjects, "we're well aware. They never stopped in all the years you've been in there. The truth is out; you're no longer needed, Brador."

The man coughs out a humorless laugh, the antlers atop his "helm" shifting slightly.

"Simon. You always did think you knew everything. There's always more, things you can only see once you're buried with them." Brador gets to his feet. "It seems to me that we're at an impasse, although I'd be happy to trade barbs however long you'd like. You know where to find me."

With that, he stretches out on his ruined bed, idly running his fingers over the heavy mace on his hip. Christ, that's going to hurt if he accidentally rolls over on it.

Simon grabs your shoulder and leans in to whisper.

"Brador is a madman. I don't know how he intends to stop us from that cell, but he was never one to bluff."

[] Keep talking
-[] About?

[] Fight Brador
-[] Incapacitate him
-[] Kill him

[] Leave him be

[] Keep going

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"I'll take yer word for it." You crack your neck and roll your shoulders. "Wanna fuck 'im up?"

"Love to. Shall I shoot him through the bars?"

"Nah, let's be sportsmanlike about it."

"I could wing him, at least."

"Temptin', but I don't think we should give 'im time ta use whatever space-time bullshit he was plannin' on killin' us with."

"Agreed."

"Whatever you're blabbering about," Brador says in the tone of a couchbound roommate asking you to grab him a beer while you're up, "I'm sure it can be discussed elsewhere. I need my rest."

You take several steps back and motion for Simon to do the same. "Apologies; Simon and I were just wonderin' about that bell ye mentioned. I think we've made a breakthrough."

"Oh?"

Your munitions thud into the lock somewhere between the "h" and the question mark. You can just about hear his well-oiled monologue engine grind to a halt before they detonate.

"Ding-dong, ye heathen fucker!"

Brador scrambles desperately off his bed as you give the door a mighty boot and charge in. He tilts the frame up to block your advance, then slams home a blow to the shoulder through the decaying wood. You grab the weapon before he can retract it, shrugging off the front kick he rams into your knee.

Huh, those are really nice shoes. What's the point of giving a guy nice shoes if he's just going to sit around and be ominous at people all day?

With one arm stuck in the bed sandwich you two have made, he's in no position to stop Simon from putting an arrow through his chest. Brador staggers back, only abandoning his weapon when you give it a hearty yank. He pauses to rip the shaft out of his torso, an act of impressive bravado somewhat undercut by your smashing him upside the head with the bedframe.

Somehow still conscious, he fakes a dive for his mace and cracks you in the chin with a headbutt. One of the antlers catches you just under the eye, stunning you just long enough for him to make an actual dive.

Simon's next shot gets him through the neck.

Implacable as ever, Brador drags himself towards his weapon, even as two more shafts bury themselves in his ribs. You push the mace out of his reach and deliver a vicious soccer kick, giving femur another win over jaw in their eternal rivalry. He finally slumps down, unable to support himself, and gives you a baleful and bloodsoaked grin.

"You wouldn't be in the Nightmare without some sins of your own. Think killing me gets rid of them?"

Before you can reply, Simon puts one final arrow through his brain. Brador spasms once, then dissolves like so many of his fellow dreamers, leaving only his mace and an oddly-shaped bell. You turn towards your companion with a frown.

"Ye stole my moment! Had a quip planned and everythin'!"

"No, you didn't," says Simon. "You were still trying to think of one."

"How d'ye know?"

"Your lips were moving."

"I could have been rehearsin'."

"Who are you trying to convince?"

You scoop up the bell and mace, wondering whether the middle finger managed to evolve in Yharnam. You suppose you do owe him for not listening to him during the siege, and at least he hasn't taken up the habit of expressing his annoyance by stabbing you like everyone seems so keen on doing.

[] Keep going

[] Talk to Simon
-[] About?

[] Go back to
-[] Where?

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"So," you say, admiring the craftsmanship of the still-intact bedframe, "I've got somethin' of an odd question."

"I may have something of an odd answer. What is it?"

"What kinda rude gestures does Yharnam have? I'm somethin' of a connoisseur in the field back home."

"I never would have guessed."

You put down the frame and cock an eyebrow. "Ye've gotten a wee bit sassier since we left the Kegs behind."

"You have a rapport with them that I didn't want to interfere with. Plus, it took a while to get used to you. Getting on your wavelength is not a journey for the faint-hearted."

"Fair enough. Anyway, local obscenity?"

"I might not be the best source," he says as the two of you head back into the hall. "You'd have to ask Eileen or one of the others in the Chapel about recent developments. In my time, at least, we had this." He holds up both index fingers and both middle fingers, then crosses them in something of a plus sign.

"So where'd that come from?"

"Not sure, honestly.. Some Byrgenwerth alumni brought it into the Church and it picked up steam."

"Weren't ye an intelligence operative?"

"Some things are beyond even me."

Ascending the nearby stairs brings you to a large room lined with relatively luxurious hospital beds, each with its own laden nightstand and candlestick. A stone block similar to the one hiding Old Yharnam sits behind the entry hatch and you can see an altar of some sort at the back. The whole arrangement brings to mind a mishmash of the Grand Cathedral and the current state of the Chapel, complete with blood IVs near the beds.

"Fancy digs."

"The Church had something like this around the time I left. Anyway, back to what we were discussing: what sort of gestures did your home country have?"

"Oh, loads. Tell me if any of these ring a bell." You hold up a middle finger.

"Saw it here and there. Didn't Ellis the gunner give Liam that one when we first got back?"

"Oh, yeah. Good call." Index and middle finger.

"Not familiar with that one."

Index, middle, and pinky.

"Not that one, either."

Index and thumb pressed together into a circle, other index finger rapidly entering and exiting said circle.

"We do have that one."

"Thought as much."

A heavy sword swing precludes any further exploration of shared experiences, shaving a few tatters off of Simon's outfit and slightly improving his overall look in the process. The impromptu fashionista, a black-clad woman wielding the same weapon the Messengers gave you after your spat with the goatwolfgorilla, takes a chop at your legs with the follow-through.

A quick backstep takes you out of harm's reach, but she's on you with furious abandon. To her credit, she does an excellent job of keeping you between her and Simon and her attack is relentless enough to force you to defend with a bayonet in each hand.

Unfortunately for her, she's massively overestimated Simon's unwillingness to put you in the crossfire. The bowman catches you in the chest on his first shot, then puts one through her head when she hesitates. She vanishes before she hits the ground, taking any and all potentially groundbreaking intel with her.

"That's another thing," you say as you pull the arrow out of your ribs and toss it to Simon. "How come most of the Church is wearin' those robes while Brador gets ta play dressup?"

"The perks of careful spending," he replies. "As far as I know, Brador was a miser of the highest order. Slept in one of the side rooms of the Grand Cathedral, ate from a soup kitchen, and just bought new clothes whenever his current set got too much blood on it. Besides that, all I can ever remember him spending anything on was commissioning that mace of his from the Workshop."

"The higher-ups give 'im any grief for bein' out o' uniform?"

Simon opens his mouth, then shuts it firmly while you walk towards the aforementioned altar. "I was going to say 'would you give someone like Brador grief' before remembering that you would and did. The higher-ups weren't you, thankfully."

You let that one slide. "What's so special about the mace? Looks like a regular one mixed with a hat rack ta me."

"I was pulled into the Nightmare before I could get any definite answers. One of my informants said he saw Brador stab himself with it, but decided to get as far away as possible rather than stay and observe."

"Reasonable man."

The altar shows three stone figures standing over a body, its face and legs covered in cloth. Chains run from its base to somewhere high above, another passage shining from just below the far-off ceiling.

"Is this thing a fuckin' elevator."

"I do believe this thing is a fucking elevator."

Your search for a lever proves surprisingly fruitless, leaving the two of you to scour the tasteful artwork for some sort of clue. The body itself has a hole through the top of its head; discussions with Simon confirm that the Church was never big on trepanation, leading your investigation there. Below the cloth, you see that it's missing an eye and, remembering that weird pendant you grabbed from Extra Spicy Goatwolfgorilla earlier, figure it's worth a shot.

The lift clanks to life.

"Why did that work?"

"I have no idea," says Simon with genuine pity.

As the entire altar slowly ascends, you remember that you still have an outstanding piece of bullshit and turn to Simon.

"I really did have a badass quip, ye know."

"So you've said."

"I'm serious. I was all set ta say 'nah, but it gets rid o' you' and then ye ruined everythin'."

He shrugs. "Not your best."

"Philistine."

"I don't know what that means."

[] Keep going
-[] Go in hot
-[] Go in careful

[] Keep talking to Simon
-[] About?

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

As the lift grinds to a halt, your battle-honed instincts search desperately for some kind of jibe, anything to keep Simon from ending the ride with the advantage. No way some raggedy-ass spook from the fucking Dark Ages is going to out-quip Alexander Fucking Anderson.

"Ye know, back where I'm from, there was a famous song about a Stairway ta Heaven. I'm hopin' it's somethin' like this, though; more handicap-accessible." Not that stairs have stopped Yharnam's legion of handicapable gunners, of course, but not everyone in their position can be that violently self-sufficient.

Huh, you never did check up on those guys you left crawling around near Upper Cathedral Ward. You're sure they're fine.

"Heaven's would have better artwork, I'm sure." Simon motions for you to lead the way as you both step off the platform.

You pause to light the conveniently-placed Lantern before walking up a short set of stairs. You nearly fall back down at the top, assailed by what smells, in a rare instance of literal colloquialism, like a high concentration of piss and vinegar. An acrid pool that would probably treat "fetid" as a compliment takes up the center of the room while a tower of spiral staircases stretches from it to the far-off ceiling, connected in places to a series of balconies.

Musings on the practicality of such arrangements are cut short by mutterings from the edge of the pool. A man with a pulsing cyst for a head is rooting around in the filth and showing rather less concern than you'd expect about having a pulsing cyst for a head. You take a tentative step forward and he turns, you think, to face you.

"Has someone, anyone seen my eyes? I'm afraid I've dropped them in a puddle. Everything is pale now."

The fact that he has neither eye sockets nor a mouth doesn't seem to slow him down and you can respect that. You and Simon give the pool a quick scan, making sure to examine the nooks and crannies of the dissolving bodies within, but come up empty.

"No dice, I'm afraid," you tell him.

"Such a shame. I'll have to keep looking."

And so he does. You briefly consider popping that head with a bayonet to see what comes out, but you just don't have the heart. He's doing his best, bless him.

"This the Research Hall?" you ask Simon.

"Looks like it. The architecture is certainly in-character."

He's not wrong; the central tower is a logistical nightmare even by Yharnam standards. The staircase starts and stops intermittently, skipping several floors at a time, and you just know there are an entirely separate series of convoluted stairways connecting those sections. Zithead over there's wearing hospital scrubs, and considering the number of turned ankles this monstrosity has to generate, that's probably the official dress code.

Worst of all, the highest stairway that you can see ends on empty air, well below the pair of ornate double doors that, according to narrative convention, almost certainly hide your next objective. It wouldn't surprise you if the whole damn thing was threaded like a corkscrew so it could be moved up and down.

You open your mental shitlist and underline the Byrgenwerth Architect a few more times.

"That right there is a Stairway ta Heaven. Tryin' ta walk up that thing'll send yer arse there in a jiffy."

"They call it the Hunters' Nightmare for a reason."

"Yeah, because the 'Hunters' Extreme Inconvenience' was too much of a mouthful."

The both of you shuffle your feet for a moment, blatantly procrastinating.

"Ye know, we're gonna be climbin' for a while, how'd ye like ta hear about our LORD and-"

"Hang on," says Simon, ignoring you with impressive fervor. "Do you have a max range on your teleportation?"

"Not really. If I know how far away it is, I can get there."

"I can eyeball the distance to those doors. Was there one of those Lanterns you've mentioned after we killed Ludwig?"

"There was. There's one about twenty feet behind us, too."

"Good. Ebrietas managed to send us directly to Ludwig's chamber, so she can either tell where we've been or target the Lanterns. You teleport up, go through those doors, and find another one; I'll head back to the Chapel and then meet you at the top."

"Ye're tellin' me ye don't want ta climb a million stairs? It's good for the glutes." You frown. "Hang on, how the fuck can ye eyeball that distance?"

"I'm an archer."

"That's gotta be half a kilometer up!"

"I am an extremely good archer."

[] Take the scenic route

[] Take the shortcut

[] Keep talking to Simon
-[] About?

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

While you're always up for tearing your way through dens of iniquity with the inevitability of a tidal wave made of knives, that is a lot of stairs.

"Sounds like a plan," you say as you hand him the bloodshot eye. "If I find a lantern and ye don't come right away, how long should I wait before headin' ta the Chapel through the Dream?"

"Time passes more slowly here, so five minutes should work. Good luck with whatever's behind those doors, Father Anderson."

After pocketing the proffered eye, he brings up a thumb and spends a few moments figuring out how far you need to jump. He gives you the distance to two decimal points because he's a showoff dick and you flutter away, your now properly-explained middle finger the last part of you to do so.

Extraneous significant figures aside, his aim is spot-on, depositing you just above the expected platform. It's not like it's that impressive, though; you could aim like that too if you spent a hundred years or so locked in an immutable nightmare with nothing better to do.

You probably couldn't, you admit to yourself. You would get bored a few months in and started setting up pit fights.

Because you are a mature and well-adjusted adult, you deal with your mild feeling of inadequacy by throwing a bayonet at a nearby wheelchair gunner and laughing as the momentum sends him screaming off the edge of the staircase. You don't even hear him hit the ground.

"Please, Lady Maria..."

You turn to see another sac-head on her knees before the great doors. One clawed hand rests at her side, the other pressed gently against where her face should be. She gives no sign of noticing you, even as you carefully walk towards her.

"Hello?" you offer.

"I have failed. Please, Lady Maria..."

Christ, you can hear the ellipses in there. You get to work shoving the doors open before she can drag the mood down any further.

Despite their size, they don't put up much of a fight, revealing a small garden of what look like sunflowers. An enormous, multi-headed stalk that twists and sways in decidedly "feed me, Seymour" fashion dominates the center, surrounded on all sides by its much smaller and less-terrifying kin. The malformed sun shines down from above; looking closely, you note that the flowers' central depressions are not circular but rather shaped like the bloodied pupil you gave to Simon.

The ground rumbles before you can consider the ramifications. A thin blue arm erupts from the soil and brings with it a towering figure, slim of limb but broad of chest. Instead of a head, a blob of flesh not unlike melted wax rests between its great shoulders.

Bile rises as the sight of blue skin and flowers remind you of the Orphanage, but you force it down with a grimace. Sinister plotting from day one, indeed.

"Can ye understand me?"

The thing lurches towards you, ponderous and unthinking in its approach. Another tears itself free of the ground behind it and joins its march. You fill your hands and lower yourself into a fighting stance.

The second time's always easier.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v_8t5ay0-YU
BOSS BATTLE: THE LIVING FAILURES
​

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

The nearest one seems to dial in on you, picking up a bit of speed with its long strides. Though you can't fault its gusto, you feel your dreams of a quality fight go out the window and land face-first on the asphalt below.

"Lumbering" may be an insult, but a proper lumber is terrifying. You've seen plenty of big bastards who could make you feel like you had a mountain chasing after you. It's all about presence, about establishing oneself as an inevitable, unstoppable force. A great lumberer is a train whose tracks you can't get off of.

This guy's just kind of awkwardly big. You hop away from its telegraphed swat and put a bayonet each in its chest and headmeat. It falls to a knee, then goes all the way down when you put another pair into its dome. Two more pull themselves out of the earth to take its place and stagger after you.

Are there just a shitload buried down there or is the plant making them? If it's the latter, you know what you're planting in Granny Anderson's old garden next Spring. With this kind of performance, though, you're not certain this lot would survive a season in there. Her tomatoes are legendarily ornery.

You continue to dance around, shanking the big galoots with ease. You can't help but feel bad about this whole thing, both because they're most likely unfortunate victims of a corrupt theocratic establishment, violently twisted in both body and spirit, and because they're absolute chumps.

There's a brief moment of hope when one of them forms a sphere of light in its six-fingered hands. Said hope is quickly dashed when the sphere meanders towards you, utterly fails to compensate for your lazy sidestep, and bursts with all the gravitas of a fart in an artillery barrage. Everything these guys do is so ludicrously slow that you're half-tempted to start fighting on one leg just to keep things interesting.

One of them does manage a pretty swift headbutt though, so that's something. Baby steps.

Once you've put five of them down, the remainder stop cold before raising their hands as one. The sky around you darkens, studded throughout with pinpricks of light, and you instinctively roll into cover. They fail to rain down on you as they did against Lumnia, however; instead, you turn to see a series of comets as big around as you are tall bearing down on you from high above.

It's pretty solid as far as finishing moves go. Would probably work better if the people casting it didn't have to stand motionless in easily-exploded positions. It also loses points for said comets breaking on impact with the central stalk; since they're all coming from the same angle, all you have to do is sit in the great flower's shadow and count the seconds until the fuses run out.

Only two of the creatures rise to replace the five you just mulched, paying the smouldering corpses no mind. One barrels forward while the other forms another sphere, this one shooting out a sequence of smaller lights instead of flying at you itself. Unfortunately for them, it's as slow as everything else they've tried to hit you with. After dispatching the clingier of the two, you take advantage of this rare opportunity to Matrix-dodge the incoming lights.

You wind up falling on your ass and taking a glancing blow to the shoulder. That bend is a lot harder on your core than you expected. You suppose that's what you get for coasting on your natural talent instead of training for Iscariot's yearly limbo tournament.

Their little planetarium trick long since dissipated, you take stock of the arena and note no more incursions. The last lunk standing brings its hands up for another blast, leaving it woefully unprepared for the hard shove you give it. It flails desperately for a moment before pitching off the edge, hopefully to land on one of those screamy fucks with the metal whips.

Christ, these guys can't even die without embarrassing themselves.

Prey Slaughtered​

A lantern rises into view as the myriad bodies sink back into the earth, a metallic key with a flower-like design resting atop it. No sooner have you pocketed it than Simon shimmers into view. After a few seconds spent appraising the massive flower, which continues to bob unsettlingly, he turns to you.

"That didn't take long. Any difficulties?"

"Nah. Fought some patients o' theirs that'd lost their heads both figuratively and literally. Didn't put up much of a fight."

"Much of a fight by your standards or by the standards of someone who doesn't regenerate?"

"Yes."

[] Keep going

[] Talk to Simon
-[] About?

[] Go to
-[] The Dream
-[] The Chapel

[] Write in...