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

[Tricia]

"That's my job," you say with a shrug. "A man o' the LORD is sworn ta carry the burdens of his flock."

"Am I part of your 'flock' now?" says Yurie. "You have momentum, Anderson. You catch people in your wake and they can't get away." She curls up and buries her head in her lap. "I'm so tired. Fix this. Please."

"I'll fix it. Don't you worry about that. First, though, somethin's been buggin' me for a while."

"Oh?" She uncoils a bit, educator's instincts overriding her weariness.

"See, when I died and showed up here, everythin' came with me. The coat, the bayonets, even the fancy specs I'm certain were smashed ta bits. So what about that thing I had in my heart?" You move forward a bit in your seat. "Ebrietas, do ye feel anythin' from my chest? If ye can't, would ye mind poppin' my heart out and givin' it a once-over?"

Ebrietas hesitates a moment before responding. Father, you promised me you wouldn't abuse your regeneration anymore. And the last time someone pulled your heart out, you died. I don't want to do that to you. For what it's worth, I can't detect anything on any frequency I know and your heartbeat sounds free of foreign objects.

"Fair enough," you say. "I apologize for that."

She nods and you sink back into your chair.

"So what all have we got to wrap up?" asks Simon. "The Nightmare? You haven't exactly left many stones unturned in Yharnam."

"Think it's just the Nightmare, yeah. Fingers crossed Maria'll let us close the book on that one.

"Speakin' o' Maria," you say, "I've got some more questions for her great-great-great-whatever grandmother." You start to rise before a stern look from Yurie sits you right back down. "Oy, Queenie. Ye been listenin' in on this?"

"We've little else to do," she replies, dryly enough to suffocate whatever hardy fish remain in the lake.

"Any thoughts on the whole 'livin' in a dream' situation?"

"We had not suspected. Trapped in a room, interacting with the outside world only secondhand, We had no point of reference. Our own immortal body robbed Us of any way to measure time."

"Yeah, heard that one before. Any idea who the host might be? Ye bragged about that fuckhuge library, after all. Where's that Cainhurst knowledge ye tried ta tempt me with?"

When she remains silent, you put on your smuggest look, one so blindingly irritating that even a foot of iron can't save her from it. "Or was all that just a bluff?"

"You are playing to Our pride. Do you really think that's going to work?"

"Considerin' I'm fine and ye're a head on a table? Yeah, I kinda do."

Her sullen silence radiates the patience of ages, the unflappable demeanor of a born monarch.

"Just talk," says Simon. "I'll throw you both in the damn lake if I have to and, unlike you, he can swim."

"Fine," she grumbles. "Give me a moment to think."

It's actually three or four moments, but you're a nice enough guy to let it slide.

"It may have to do with the source of Our blood: Yharnam, Queen of the Pthumerians. They ruled the catacombs beneath the city in ages past and their writing speaks of her tryst with Formless Oedon, the Great One for whom your chapel is named. She bore his child, Mergo, but he came out stillborn. The collected works of Loran, Isz, the Hintertombs, and Pthumeria offer no better possibilities than Oedon, Queen Yharnam, or Mergo himself."

"You said he died at birth," says Simon.

"In the human sense, perhaps. Great Ones do not die as we do. Their consciousness persists, much like the dreamers of whom you speak."

"Counterpoint: I beat the shit out of a couple o' Amygdalae and they died proper."

"The situations were slightly different, Anderson."

"Byrgenwerth did encounter the remnants of Pthumeria," Yurie chimes in. "Some of our explorers actually acquired a blood sample from their queen, but someone defected to Cainhurst and took the sample with them. As far as I can tell, she's telling the truth."

"Not like she has any reason ta lie at this point besides raw spite and there are better ways ta go about that." You rise again, halting Yurie's own rise with a wave of your hand. "I'm not gonna do anythin' mean; just givin' her a reward for her cooperation."

Scrounging among the building's various chairs, you locate a suitably plump cushion. You heave Annalise into the air, put the cushion beneath her neck stump, and plop her back down. She doesn't thank you, but you take the lack of biting sarcasm as a sign of approval.

"Is that all you need, Anderson?" Yurie says. "Are you ready?"

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

[] Keep talking

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"I'm ready," you say. "Gotta go make sure the posse is, too. Think it's time for a group meetin' at the chapel."

"I'll join you," Yurie replies. "Ebrietas and I can provide more technical details."

"And yer decision has nothin' ta do with finally gettin' out o' this well-respected academic institution?"

"Perish the thought."

Brushing aside some splinters and weaponry you didn't manage to dislodge, she removes a panel in the nearest wall to reveal a bug-out bag big enough to serve as an effective blunt instrument. Ebrietas helps her adjust a couple of the straps as she un- and refurls her cane a few times.

"You alright with carrying a third passenger, Ebrietas?" Simon chimes in, smoothing a few wayward tatters of his cloak back into place. The ensemble actually looks worse afterwards, but you've never been a dedicated follower of fashion and so you let it slide.

Yep!

She gives a quick flex and Simon nods approvingly.

After being firmly assured that Annalise is happy where she is, the four of you soon gather outside and take to the skies. The other two vertebrates are slow to join your parting middle finger, but eventually do so with gusto. It's another pleasant flight on Air Ebrietas, bereft of errant gargoyles or, despite your fears, several Amygdalae stacked on top of one another in an ingenious anti-air platform. You even remember to give Yurie a cross well before you land; don't want a repeat of the time you forgot to tell a visiting diplomat about the jury-rigged flamethrowers you keep pointed at the orphanage's back door.

The Byrgenwerthian (Byrgenwerther?) fits right into your menagerie, unfazed by Liam's hugeness or the array of injured Churchmen down below. Eileen and Djura, now awake and mobile, help you gather the squad on the ground floor while Fiddle and Emma get some tea going. Arianna makes an effort to stand before being forcefully remanded to Djura's old bed.

"Get some rest this time or I'll use the straps," says Iosefka with uncharacteristic steel.

With Agatha's guidance, Alexandria and Todd scrounge up a chalkboard from the depths of a storage closet and wheel it out. You put it near the door both to maximize seating room and ensure that Ebrietas is close to the action. Once your throat finishes regenerating from overeager tea consumption, you get started.

"So it turns out our entire reality is a lie."

Gotta hook 'em with the first sentence. That's the trick.

The lecture goes rather well, you'd say. Yurie and Ebrietas take over for the complicated bits, leaving you to perform informative pantomime as needed. When the time comes for questions, quite a few raise their hands; Todd picks up the intricacies of dimensional manipulation much more quickly than you'd have thought. Just goes to show that you can't always judge someone's worth by their competence in their current profession.

"We're trapped in the dream of an unfathomable creature," says Eileen, "and your solution is to stab the problem until it goes away?"

"I'll stop usin' rampant violence ta solve my problems when it stops workin'."

"As much as I'd prefer some complicated plan that demanded all of our unique skills, stabbing is honestly the easiest way to go about it," Yurie confirms with a shrug. "Trust me, I'm every bit as disappointed as you are."

"You're a harbinger of something, Father Anderson," your fine feathered friend continues. "I'm still not entirely sure what. So what should we do while you're off saving the world?"

"Batten down every hatch ye can find. Everyone either inside or touchin' the ward at all times. Shit's gonna hit the fan and, with the way things've gone tonight, that might wind up bein' literal. I'm gonna stop by the Nightmare first, so there's a bit of a grace period, but we can't dally for long."

"I'm willing to join in your attack," says Jonathan. A few of his fellow Church Hunters nod in agreement.

"Need ye here ta protect the place," you reply with a shake of your head. "Also, be honest; wouldn't ye rather be here in a fortified position with a Goddamn minigun than in some horrific nightmare plane?"

They seem unsure.

"Within' strikin' distance o' me?"

They seem more sure.

You adjourn the meeting with a reading of Psalms 144. Everyone's a good sport about it, bowing their heads and everything, and quickly get to work once the group Amen dies down. Doors are barred, gunners take their places at windows, and noncombatants begin organizing weapons and ammo. Liam carries the one-legged Steffon up the stairs, a beast of a scoped rifle in the latter's hands. Djura marches towards you.

"I'm coming with you back to the Nightmare."

"Wouldn't ye rather stay with Steffon?"

"I'm not sitting in a tower while the world burns around me again. I spoke to him and he understands."

"Fair enough. Simon, comin'?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Yurie?"

She shakes her head. "I need to stay here and make sure your 'ward' is up to snuff. Ask me again when it's time to hit Rom."

With three-quarters of the original Nightmare Squad in tow, you head outside, though not before you tell Emma and Fiddle your best potato casserole recipe and gather up the necessary ingredients for them. It'll be a fun project while everyone's getting ready to rumble. Ebrietas sends you down the metaphorical yellow brick road and Maria rises to meet you.

"Father Anderson. What do you need?"

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"I'm off ta end this clusterfuck of a Nightmare," you reply. "Ye with me?"

Her whole body hardens, once more the towering sentinel that first welcomed you to the clocktower. Djura lengthens his stance, only to be waved down by Simon.

"I was very clear, Father Anderson. There is nothing for you here."

"I have some information ta the contrary."

"And what could that be?"

"Recursive dream bullshit."

She slackens in confusion and you pounce on the opportunity, soundly butchering Yurie's precise explanations and using Djura as an unwitting visual aid. Simon does a solid job of filling in the gaps you either can't articulate or are taking artistic liberties with.

"...and that's why I need ta nip this problem in the bud before things take a left turn down Bugfuck Avenue." You cross your arms, patting yourself on the back, before snapping your fingers. "Oh, and I've got Annalise's severed head back in Byrgenwerth. She's still pretty chatty if ye'd like a word."

Her lips and eyebrows do a merry jig as she cycles through emotions, ultimately raising a finger. "I'm going to deal with this one piece at a time."

"Fair enough."

"Let's start with Annalise. Why did you decapitate her?"

"Was tryin' ta kill her. I've got me a cross that burns the unholy. Usually a pretty good indicator o' who needs a good stabbin'."

"If you wanted to kill her, why didn't you do Steps Two through Ten?"

"Nobody's ever told me what they are," you grump. "I figure burnin's involved at some point but I don't wanna do that too early an' fuck up the whole procedure."

"Burning and scattering the ashes is a fairly reliable method," says Djura.

"Yeah, but vampires're fucky. Do things out of order and it gets weird."

"In any case," Maria intervenes, "I trust your judgment here. Though she was family, Great-Grandmother Annalise was a beast in her own way. Cainhurs had momentum, of sorts, and it needed to be blunted." She retakes her seat. "Now, regarding the Nightmare: do you know of Byrgenwerth's sins, Father Anderson?"

"What, besides Johnson's?"

She flinches at the name, but soon regains her composure. "Byrgenwerth made its first great breakthrough when the corpse of Kos, the Sea Mother, washed up on the shore of a rural fishing village. The body teemed with parasites, which fed the villagers for months on end. The scholars of Byrgenwerth met a trader who told of the hamlet's riches and went to investigate."

She leans forward, her eyes shards of sparking flint. "The scholars vivisected the fishermen. Experimented on them, tore them limb from limb to expose the secrets their bodies held. I heard the screams, Father Anderson. I still hear them, stripped of humanity and consumed with the desire to die. The scholars refused even that mercy. This Nightmare is their justice; they walk beyond this tower, content and untouched by those who wronged them.

"They are at peace, Father Anderson. A peace they were robbed of in life. I will not let you rob them of that."

She sure knows how to deliver a dramatic monologue; you probably should have expected that after seeing the way she pretended to be dead for decades for the sake of a badass one-liner. You can definitely respect that.

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"Their peace may be real," you reply, "but make no mistake; it's the peace of a beast, rid o' want or need o' human dignity."

She bristles and moves to stand, which you avert with an outstretched palm.

"Ye lectured me. Only fair I get ta lecture ye back."

When her grimace clings to life, you sigh.

"Alright, fine, get it out o' yer system. Meat o' the thigh'd be preferable."

Those are beautifully-made swords, you have to admit. You barely feel the stabs until they start scraping bone. At least she avoids the more important arteries.

"Ye good?"

"I am."

"Alright." You clear your throat and wait for the stream of blood from your leg to die out and quit killing your vibe with incessant dripping. "So, human dignity. They were robbed o' that in life, too, but those who suffer don't need the contentment o' the yoke. The greatest kindness ye can give a tortured soul isn't ta let 'em graze like mindless cattle put ta pasture."

"You haven't seen them," she offers with waning conviction.

"I've seen everyone else in this place. They're slaves to mindless routine. Let them sleep, Maria. But before that, we've gotta deal with the ones responsible for all this shit."

She returns to her seat, knuckles white. The silence oozes around your group, viscous and suffocating until you stomp your foot.

"Is this about them or about you?" you all-but-shout. "Are ye punishin' yerself for not savin' 'em in the real world? Are ye tryin' ta justify all the time ye've spent here?" You stab a finger back towards the research hall. "What about the people in there, the ones screamin' yer name and beggin' ye ta heal 'em? The fuck did they ever do ta deserve this?"

You straighten to your most imposing height and breadth. "It's time ta wake up, Maria."

"I want to talk to Gehrman."

Your bombast dissolves before the near-whisper. You slacken, unsure what sort of response she'd take as patronizing. She looks frightened, of all things, younger than you've ever seen her.

"What?"

"Use that bell you have. Ring it in his Dream. I want to talk to Gehrman."

"I can make that happen. Why, though?"

"I'm dead, Father Anderson. I died decades, centuries before you were born. I don't even know how long ago. When the Nightmare ceases, so do I. But it has to go before Yharnam's. If any of your flock die in the fight, I don't want them to suffer here.

"Gehrman was...I don't know what Gehrman was to me. Is to me. But I'm not leaving things between us as they are."

"There's nothing stopping us from saving Yharnam and then coming back," Djura interjects.

"Are you sure you'll even still have access to this place?" she replies. "Will the Nightmare still be attached to the real Yharnam? Or will it drift away, eternal and untouchable?"

"I'll take ye ta Gehrman," you say. "Interpersonal issues now, multidimensional fuckery and order of operations later. Sound good?"

She nods and you clap your hands.

"Alright, let's go get some shit resolved."

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You turn to go, remember something mid-turn, and transform it into a slick 360 spin.

"Before I go: Hope didn't ask ta be made. She had no say in what she looked like. Whatever problems ye think ye have with her, she's an innocent in all this. I'd like ye ta remember that."

Her mouth tightens, clamping off any objections, and she nods.

"Alright, I'm off. You and Simon can catch up while ye wait." You snap your fingers. "Oh, right, I never introduced ye ta Djura. Maria, this is Djura o' the Powder Kegs. He broke his arm in half punchin' Ludwig. It was awesome."

The old man gives an awkward sort of bow. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," she replies.

You turn for real this time and trek back to the nearest lantern, leaving behind an awkward silence that Djura tries to break by talking about guns. You're gone before you get a chance to determine his success.

Hope is seated on her usual ledge with what looks like a single Messenger on her lap. Closer inspection, however, reveals it as a tiny version of Ebrietas, which excitedly waves a tentacle at your approach.

I studied a lantern and figured out how to project myself here!

"I can see that," you reply, picking her up so you and Hope can do your customary bow. It's like holding a tube sock full of overeager gelatin. "Why the travel size?"

It's easier to maintain, especially since my real body is still working with Yurie.

"She has been telling me more of the waking world," says Hope with a smile. "She is a delightful companion and an excellent source of knowledge.

"Aye, she's somethin'," you say, patting your miniature acolyte on the head. It jiggles a bit with each pat and you release her to flutter onto Hope's shoulder. "Introduced her ta Gehrman, yet?"

"Not yet; he has been busy working on your commissions, although he should be about done."

"That's good, because, well, I'm bringin' Maria. She wants to talk ta him."

Hope clutches her hands together tightly enough to audibly creak.

"Does she know about me?"

"She does, yeah."

She looks down, heedless of Ebrietas' tentacle pats. "I suppose worrying will do nothing. I shall do my best to make her stay comfortable."

"Ye'll do great, I'm sure."

The nearby Messengers scatter, procuring welcome mats and floral arrangements from seemingly nowhere as you walk up the path. Gehrman rolls to meet you at the door with a massive sack in his lap.

"Just finished, Father Anderson. I have the tools they'll need to properly size them bundled in. Sorry about the delay, but I had to make sure they were perfect." He gestures down at his peg. "I know how it feels to lose part of yourself."

"Thank ye kindly." You shove the bundle up your sleeve and decide to bite the bullet. "Maria's comin'."

He's stone-faced, though you can see his mouth flinching upwards and downwards. "When?"

"As soon as I ring this here bell. Need time ta prepare?"

"Just a moment, just a moment." He shoos you out and frantically zips about the workshop. Looking over your shoulder, you watch him chop "How to Pick Up Fair Maidens" into confetti.

When the sounds of creaking wheels and evidence destruction fade away, you ring the bell. Its sheer bulk rattles the nearby wood and, before long, Maria's shade rises from the earth. She looks about the Dream, eyes lingering on a downcast Hope, and marches into the Workshop before the Doll can make her way over. The Messenger welcoming committee grumble and toss their untouched gifts aside.

"Leave us," she whispers. You nod and go to join Hope on the ledge. The Workshop doors slam shut behind you.

"Ye alright?" you ask Hope.

"It is disconcerting, Hunter Anderson. Seeing who I was supposed to be reminds me of the early days, when Gehrman refused to even look at me."

You sit next to her and put an arm around her shoulder. Ebrietas flies from her shoulder and returns with one of the dropped floral arrangements, drawing a soft smile from her face.

The three of you sit in silence, eventually dozing off in the eternal quiet. You don't know how long you're out before Ebrietas shakes the two of you awake. Maria is marching stiffly towards you.

Hope makes it up more quickly and begins to bow, only for Maria to grab her by the shoulders. They lock identical eyes.

"I'm so sorry," says Maria. "Thank you for taking care of him."

Hope fumbles for a reply, but Maria cuts her off. The Huntress raises an ornate flare gun into the air and fires, fading away alongside the report. The newly-opened Workshop doors shut once again, leaving the three of you alone in the stilling air.

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"I'll go see how he's doin'," you say. "Ebrietas, stay on standby for emergency comfortin'."

She gives you a little salute as you turn and walk up the familiar path. You give the door two quick raps and wait with your hands clasped at your waist. Before long, it creaks open and the brim of Gehrman's hat slides into view through the narrow gap.

"Just wanted ta see how ye were, if ye needed someone ta talk to or anythin'."

Fury sputters across his features, bright but stillborn. He sags and shakes his head.

"No, thank you, Father Anderson. I think I need some time alone." His crow's feet dance as he blinks away lingering dampness. "Let me know how the prosthesics work out. Good luck with the Nightmare."

"Aye, I appreciate that."

He nods and gently shuts the door. You return to your companions and the squad of Messengers gathering around them. A few seem to be attempting to ingratiate themselves with Ebrietas, offering her weapons and other trinkets.

"He needs 'is space," you report. "What about you two? Anythin' I can help ye with?"

"We are alright," says Hope as Ebrietas politely declines a hammer that resembles a tombstone on a stick. "Will you be returning now to the Nightmare?"

"Aye. Past time we put an end ta it."

She rises and the two of you bow. "Then farewell, Hunter Anderson. Be safe in your journey."

Ebrietas waves goodbye from among her cluster of admirers. Kneeling at the isolated grave, you rise to see Simon and Djura in mid-conversation with a seated Maria. All three turn at your approach.

"So," you say with a clap, "we doin' this?"

"You can pass," says Maria, "but I will not be joining you."

"Ye sure? We could really use yer help. Kicked some proper arse together back in Cainhurst."

"I will not harm the villagers, Father Anderson, and I would appreciate the three of you minimizing the suffering you inflict on them. No grandstanding, no theatrics. Clean kills."

"I think I speak for the three of us when I say that we can accommodate your request," Simon replies before you can shove your foot in your mouth and Maria can then cut it off.

"Thank you, Simon."

You shrug. "I mean, sure, but are ye fine with that? Just sittin' here an' waitin' ta die?"

"I am. I have an opportunity before me that no other Hunter ever had: a peaceful death. I had a glorious final fight, one free of self-doubt and in which I gave my everything. There is nothing more I could want.

"Forgive an old woman her selfishness."

You and your posse stand in silence for several moments before Simon steps forward and bows.

"It was an honor meeting you."

Djura follows suit, taking her hand and nodding stiffly.

"I'm sorry we didn't have more time to talk."

Maria stands and pulls from her coat a small dial, a spitting image of the great clockwork behind her seat. She holds it up to the light streaming through and the machinery grinds to life. The various discs twirl until their apertures line up, revealing a waterlogged path that roils softly in an unseen breeze. Djura and Simon step onto it, leaving you alone with Maria. The two of you share a look, one warrior to another, and you extend a hand.

"It was a pleasure."

She takes it and gives it a firm shake, smiling faintly.

"It was, indeed."

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You look down and shuffle your feet a bit, cutting short a few attempts to walk towards your companions.

"Ye mind if I preach a little bit? Promise it won't be too, well, preachy."

Maria tilts her head slightly before nodding. "I suppose."

"Right, well." You clap your hands together. "For what it's worth, from one geezer who died givin' everythin' they had to another, bein' able ta experience more o' this Hell we call life was fun. The good, the bad, the ugly; this life that the LORD gave us really is sweet and I can't say I've lost out for breathin' a bit longer, if only for havin' had the chance ta meet people like you. When your light finally snuffs out, crack a smile, why don't ye? The tale was grand."

You bow and she bows with you, a smile on her face that you've seen many times beneath a bonnet. A handful of steps take you to Djura and Simon and the three of you step into the saltwater mist, an old song on your lips.

For life is quite absurd
And death's the final word
You must always face the curtain with a bow.
Forget about your sin - give the audience a grin
Enjoy it - it's your last chance anyhow.

So always look on the bright side of death
Just before you draw your terminal breath

Life's a piece of shit
When you look at it
Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true.
You'll see it's all a show
Keep 'em laughing as you go
Just remember that the last laugh is on you.

You've got them whistling with you by the halfway point.

Once more, you give thanks to the Dream's cleaning service; you're damn sure going to need it after this. You have to walk nearly single-file at times to stay atop the sandbar, which sucks at your boots and somehow manages to befoul Simon's previously unbefoulable rags. Naked trees of indeterminate life stand at the edge of the drop off alongside clusters of stones, some of which are stacked in miniature idols, and towering masts with rotten sails peek through the mist. You step over a partially-buried whale skeleton as candlelit canoes, each bearing the corpse of a sluglike woman, bob gently. What shacks you see in the limited visibility are bloated with water and not so much encrusted as infested with tumorous clumps of barnacles.

"It's a graveyard," Djura murmurs.

"Man, even if we hadn't promised ta be quick and practical, I don't think I even could have fun with this," you reply. "Too damn depressing."

"You're more used to places only looking like this after you leave, I take it?" says Simon.

A towering form lurches into sight and the three of you draw, but the thing shows no interest in you. Humanoid and near three meters tall, it wears a sheet of sailcloth wrapped in fishing line atop its blue flesh. As it approaches, its ramblings become audible, unaffected by your proximity or the hand you rather rudely wave in front of its face to draw its attention.

"Byrgenwerth...Byrgenwerth...Blasphemous murderers...Blood-crazed fiends...Atonement for the wretches...By the wrath of Mother Kos...Mercy for the poor, wizened child...Mercy, oh please..."

That is a lot of ellipses. Some proper foreboding rambling right there.

"I'm with ye, man," you call after him as he slouches past. "Fuck Byrgenwerth."

At this, he stops and slowly turns to face you. After a moment's pause, he gives a ponderous nod and flips a lethargic bird at the clocktower.

"Fuck Byrgenwerth."

With that, he resumes his walk. You shrug and your troop advances into the hamlet, where the water rises to almost knee-deep. You flick a lantern to life and watch the heavy nets strung between the buildings sway in the breeze.

"He seemed nice," you say.

Unfortunately, the crazed Innsmouth-looking motherfucker with a spear charges in before Djura or Simon can add an appropriate setup line. You put a bayonet through his brain with a sigh.

"Won't even throw me that fuckin' bone," you mutter. "Alright, who's up ta start killin' and feelin' real bad about it?"

"Is it alright if I just feel ambivalent?" Djura replies. You and Simon stare at him.

"I legitimately can't tell if you're joking and that frightens me," says the bowman.

[] Be efficient

[] Don't be efficient

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

With a quick prayer for the soon-to-be re-deceased and some failed attempts to seal your respective boots, the three of you march deeper into the mass of shanties. The fishmen, who seem to share a more uniform theme than the Pirates of the Caribbean-esque walking bouillabaisse you expected, busy themselves with mending boats and nets as you pass. None of the work is pressing enough to stop them from launching themselves at you with furious abandon, but you can appreciate their respect for preventative maintenance.

You shortly find yourselves before a sizable plaza, a well in the middle and distant splashes from all directions announcing its occupancy. For efficiency's sake, you and Djura help Simon onto a nearby rooftop, then onto the one next to it when the first one caves in beneath him. Undaunted, he takes position at the highest point and nocks an arrow.

"Ready when you are."

Barring the hooded fishman who launches Logarius-style smoke skulls at you, a habit Simon quickly corrects, you dispatch the gathered horde (school?) without issue. As you pause to pull Simon's ammo out for reuse, however, heavy tremors churn the waters in classic Jurassic Park fashion.

"The fuck is that?" you call to Simon.

"Hang on." He cranes his neck, turning this way and that, before blanching. "That is a shark. That is a giant shark with arms and legs."

The thing bursts from between two buildings and barrels down on you with a rasping bellow. The head reminds you more of a sperm whale, or maybe a right whale considering the lumpy masses all over its body, but semantics can wait until after the four-meter mountain of mussels, muscles, and seething hatred is finished trying to deep-six your face. It shrugs off both bayonets and arrows that bury themselves to the feathers in its mad charge, forcing you and Djura to dodge in opposite directions. There's no hesitation when it spins to face Djura and exposes its back to you, which quickly proves a mistake when you rush in and go to town on its spine. It teeters forward just in time to catch Djura's Stake Driver uppercut right in what very swiftly ceases to be a face.

This has the side effect of just drenching the old man in fish brains, leaving him to scrub away while you gather up the spent arrows. Simon hops down to meet you and stows them away with a nod.

"Want to take a look in the well?" he asks, motioning towards the ladder peeking out from its rim..

"Fuck no," you reply. "There's probably like eight of these big fucks waitin' for us down there."

Djura peers down, walks over to one of the slain spearmen, and carries said spear back with him before dropping it into the well. The stone funnels the resulting roars back at you with enough force to blow your hair back.

"Just two," he reports.

"Never thought I'd see you turn down a fight," says Simon.

"We're on the clock and I'm not allowed ta enjoy myself."

"Fair enough," he shrugs.

A bit of searching reveals a path out of the water and into a wooded area. You assume this is where the intelligentsia gather, as the fishmen here have the good sense to try throwing their spears instead of running across thirty meters of open ground in a vain attempt to stab you. The ultimate result is still the same, of course, but you feel slightly bad for stunting the hamlet's path towards enlightenment. Then another sharkwhaleguy comes after you with an entire goddamn anchor and you decide that piscine culture can kiss your ass.

Once both he and the accompanying pack of piranhadogs are dead, you soon find your way to a small hut and take the time to wring your clothes out and pour as much crap out of your boots as you can. Djura gives his a good thump and an entire crab pops out, giving him a friendly wave before scuttling over to the pulped giant and munching away.

"Feelin' alright?" you ask Simon as you flick a lantern to life. "Look a wee bit troubled."

"It's nothing," he replies. "This place just makes me uncomfortable for some reason."

An entire corner of the hut is missing, giving you a view of yet more labyrinthine shacks. On another wall sits a cell door, which stays locked for about five seconds before Djura explodes it with the Stake Driver. The center of the room looks like another well, but the chains leading down and your most hated of foes, the lever, reveal it as a Yharnam-style elevator.

"Huh. So this is where Byrgenwerth found 'im."

"Where to next?" Djura asks.

"The way I see it," you reply, "we've got two options. One is ta go through that hole over there and deal with whatever twisty turny bullshit this place still has ta offer. The other is ta ride this thing down; in my experience, these tend ta take ye where ye need ta go."

"Convenient," he says.

"Isn't it?"

[] Go out the hole

[] Go down the elevator

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"I say we go down," you declare. "Any objections?"

"Nope."

"None."

You yank on the lever and the chains grumble to life. You hear a faint tune beneath the grinding as the platform rises, origin unknown. After Simon and Djura volunteer you to confirm its weight capacity, the three of you group up on the disc and, once everyone's extremities are accounted for, step on the raised section in the center and begin the journey downwards. The air grows heavier and cooler with every inch, oozing through your sinuses with a heady saltwater burn. The tune starts again, seemingly right below your feet, but you can't figure out why until the cylindrical shaft opens up into a massive chamber.

From below, you see a series of ridges lining the inside of the shaft, extending just far enough to graze the edge of the disc itself. Their shapes and spacing vary, matching up with the beat you heard. The motherfucker didn't just invent elevators, he invented elevator music. You can only hope the latter died with him.

A heavy thrum greets you as the platform slides into place and the three of you dismount. A look around reveals a slug-person, not unlike the corpses in the boats above, "kneeling" in an obvious prayer pose. He offers no reaction when the three of you round the corner to see dozens upon dozens more reverential invertebrates lining a passage to the open air, their humming harmonizing brutally in the damp air. You poke one for curiosity's sake and get only a dirty look for your troubles before it goes back to humming.

"I can't help but feel like slug-people and saltwater aren't a good combination," you say.

"I think they're more like snail-people, honestly," says Djura. "Look at that hump on their backs."

"I propose 'sneeple' as shorthand," says Simon.

"Motion carried," you reply.

Etymological precedent thus set, you step onto the beach. The sun's clouded eye struggles against the mist, the veritable forest of wrecked masts mere suggestions among the waves. It's the colossal figure near the shoreline, however, that draws your attention. Bone-white and larger than life, its lower half resembles nothing so much as a monstrous nudibranch, flattened and dehydrated on the coarse sand. Its upper half, by contrast, is clearly humanoid and female, fin-lined arms longer than you are tall stretching from a cowled torso like some primeval mermaid dredged from the depths and left to bake. Total MILF.

It's also clearly dead, branching fins rustling in the breeze.

"That'd be Mother Kos, I presume," says Djura. "Where's the host?"

Disturbingly on cue, the corpse bulges obscenely. Before your eyes, a lanky figure pulls its way free, drenched in amniotic fluid and trailing a heap of bone and viscera. It forces its way to its feet, steaming and trembling in the anemic sunlight, and wails in a voice that deepens in seconds.

Ah, the miracle of birth. What a beautiful thing.

The creature rounds on you, footing surer with every step and twin flaps of loose skin trailing behind. Though bearing the traditional two arms and two legs, it shares its mother's pale flesh and fins along its arms. Its face is that of an old man, resembling Patches' but in desperate need of ironing. Its umbilical cord, partially wrapped around its wrist, terminates in a massive, bony placenta covered in fleshy pustules. What begins as a trot quickly becomes a lope, then a feral sprint as it devours the distance between you.

Simon nocks an arrow, Djura revs his Gatling gun, and you take a fighting stance. You're not getting concussed by a placenta again.

BOSS BATTLE: ORPHAN OF KOS
​

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You fill your hands and charge forward, the Gatling whine and the creature's screeching in near-harmony. You hear sand burst behind you as your gunners scatter, then erupt in the Orphan's path beneath an onslaught of bullets and arrows. Undaunted, it picks up speed, bent so low its chin nearly carves a furrow as it weaves. Placenta-club over its shoulder, it leaps forward like Jordan from the free throw line, intent on posterizing you with authority.
Unfortunately for him, you are also well-versed in the art of slam-jamming and unleash that most fearsome of sick moves: the killer crossover.

You angle off as the thing buries the club worryingly deep in the sand. Rather than wallow in its shame at being so righteously juked, however, it instead pivots and brings the thing around in a widening arc that forces all three of you to hit the deck. Just the pressure of its passage sets your collar a-fluttering; the fact that the Orphan has shoulders the size of its head suddenly makes a lot more sense.

Before Djura can get his gun spinning again, the Orphan jerks the club back into its hand and bears down on you with mad swings that you struggle to meet club-to-club. The creature is faster and stronger than it has any right to be and its raw aggression forces you into the shallows.

You've dealt with fast tonight. You've dealt with strong tonight. You haven't dealt with anything like this. To paraphrase an old boxing analyst, your opponent fights like a fish swims. Its attacks are wide and inefficient, but there's an instinctual understanding of momentum and flow that leaves your martial mastery scrambling for answers. This style is the opposite of Logarius' mechanical efficiency; it's improvising with every blow, lashing out with hands and feet whenever you parry or duck his weapon and filling all possible openings with relentless violence.

Neonatal care has never been this intense.

Djura rumbles into the fray with his Stake Driver cocked, while you catch Simon scrambling up the cliffside out of the corner of your eye. Makes sense; firing into melee was easy with Ludwig, who was roughly the size of a barge, but he'll need a better angle for this lanky fuck.

Unlike some assholes you've Double Impact'd with, the old man knows how to make close quarters combat a team sport, staying clear of your swings while finding angles for his boxing combinations. He just doesn't have enough reach to get past the telephone-pole limbs that never seem to stop moving. The Orphan somehow manages to chain an overhand smash that sends spiderweb cracks through your forearms into a back thrust kick that launches Djura a good four meters.

Point-blank isn't working.

"Back up!" you yell to Djura, crossing your fingers that Fishface's language centers aren't as well-developed as his biffing centers. "Give Simon room ta shoot!"

He gives an affirmative grumble and makes space while you do the same, circling off to put the Orphan between you and the sea as it roars after you. You beat a full retreat, sending volley after volley of bayonets towards its face. Its pursuit falters when the Gatling gun resumes its song and the arrows rain down. Apparently deciding it would rather deal with the roving stream of tracer rounds than the arrows, it unspools its umbilical cord and hurls the club towards Simon's perch.

The bowman's leaping ability and grip strength save him from a pasting as the blow obliterates the spot where he stood. He dangles just at the edge of the impact crater, suspending himself with one hand and flopping wildly to avoid the minor rockslide that ensues. Heedless of the fact that he just flattened dozens of kilos of solid rock, the Orphan continues the arc with a leap towards Djura. He scrambles back to avoid the placental piledriver and, not one to waste perfectly good kinetic energy, the Orphan drags the whirling bludgeon back your way.

Perfect.

You leap towards your foe with bayonets held high. Blessed steel bites into taut umbilical cord and, with a little help from centripetal force, shears through. The Orphan's screams take a turn for the guttural as the detached placenta careens into the rocks and sends a fresh wave of debris tumbling towards Simon.

You're not sure what the bowman's yelling, but you're just going to go ahead and assume it's "thank you."

[] Write in...

--

CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Slight blunt trauma from deflecting blows.

Simon: Currently trying desperately not to fall off cliff.

Djura: Getting his wind back after a kick to the gut.

Orphan: Cord cut.