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

[Tricia]

"Quitcher bitchin'," you say through a smile. "Same thing happened ta me when I came out and I turned out fine."

The Orphan, in a clear case of abandonment issues, makes a beeline for its lost weapon. From behind, Djura shreds the sand around its feet with a fresh stream of gunfire that, in its panicked state, the creature can't avoid. A round punches through its calf and the Orphan makes its first ungraceful move of the fight, eating shit on the bloodstained sand. It scrambles up and, at least for the moment, abandons its pursuit in favor of going after the old man.

While the crazy newborn bludgeoning machine is away, the Anderson will play.

"Simon, heads up!"

You hurl a bayonet into the cliff face by his hands and he latches on, working his way back towards a better foothold. While he does that, you launch a storm of nails and pages that lock the placenta away until Kos Jr. can learn to be responsible with its toys.

"Coming your way," Djura huffs from your left side, a monumentally pissed Orphan hot on his tail. You tag in with a sweep of your bayonets and he makes distance once again. The creature is somehow even wilder than before, letting you land a bevy of cuts on its thrashing limbs. Punches and kicks and elbows flow together in an unbroken dance that steadily trails more and more blood in its wake.

Then it gets the bright idea to grab you.

As you swing for its neck, it catches you by the wrist and yanks you towards it. You start to slip forward, but it helpfully stops your forward momentum by driving one of the slabs of depleted uranium it calls fists directly into your face. Your jaw cracks instantly and teeth go flying. It hurts like a motherfuck, but the worst part is that the punch knocked out your front teeth; as you know from experience, all your quips are going to have little whistles until the damn things grow back.

Before you can tell it to sssssuck a dick, it grabs you behind the head with both hands in the universal symbol for "I am going to knee you in the face until there is nothing left between my knees and my palms." You force your posture as straight as possible and jack its jaw with uppercuts as it tries to wrangle you back into proper smashing position, an effort somewhat hampered by the arrow Simon puts in its shoulder. With a bark of anger, it wrenches you between itself and Simon and slams an elbow into your damaged jaw. You tip forward, a viscous mix of blood and mucous pouring from your face, and watch as the knee locks onto its target.

The Gatling whir picks up again. The Orphan's head whips towards it and, for just a moment, its monstrous grip slackens. Your brain catches hold of the reins once more and you drive a bayonet into the pierced shoulder. Two more vicious stabs part the bone entirely and the creature's left arm crashes to the ground.

Its next scream has an unmistakable hint of fear swirled in it. The Orphan hurls you away and charges towards Djura, dodging a follow-up arrow by the skin of its teeth. Its speed just isn't there anymore with the damaged leg and the old man tenses to leap away and start the merry chase again.

He times it perfectly. Then the twin flaps of flesh on the Orphan's back stir and send it hurtling into him shoulder-first. Djura goes flying back and tumbles along the sand for quite a ways. It bellows and lightning engulfs your world.

Your instincts, honed by various ill-fated attempts to capture a Thunderbird, launch you clear of the blast. The resulting thunder blows out your eardrums, but tinnitus is a foe you have bested many times before and you quickly shake it off. You can see Simon scrambling away from his own near-miss, while Djura struggles to his feet with burns branching across his body like the root system of some parasitic plant.

Strained, powerful breaths draw your attention towards the shoreline, where the Orphan is struggling with its warded placenta. You can see the flesh of its remaining hand bubble and blister as it tries to force its way through, ultimately abandoning it and instead returning to its fallen arm. It picks it up and bites down on the shoulder. The sunlight writhes through its wings and it slams the arm down hard enough to shatter the nearest outcropping of glass.

You have a newfound respect for Mama Anderson putting up with your tantrums.

[] Write in...

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CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Shattered jaw, nearly deafened, equilibrium issues.

Simon: Frazzled, deafened.

Djura: Severely burned, deafened. Has blood vials.

Orphan: Severed arm currently held in teeth, puncture wound in left calf.

 

[Tricia]

In one smooth motion, you pull out your club and twist it like this. You toss it to Simon without taking your eyes off the Orphan, trusting him to know what to do with it. He can put on his big boy pants and get over the whole "no guns" thing.

Ponderings on Simon's similarities to Batman and whether the Club o' Righteousness counts as a gun are quickly shoved aside in favor of not getting bludgeoned to death by the pissed-off blue toddler rampaging towards you. It's ramped up the aggression once more, attacking with newfound speed in a flurry that forces you back. You feint as best you can, trying to draw out its dramatic movements, but its wings give it a whole new axis with which to fuck your shit right up. A literal flying knee breaks your guard and blasts you away from your ward. Glass shatters beneath you and gouges your coat a few steps closer to Simon's aesthetic.

Instead of the follow-up ground pound you expected, however, the creature instead rockets towards your fire support. His panicked laser shot goes wide, perhaps a byproduct of his inner ear getting obliterated, and his rags do little to blunt the headbutt that audibly cracks his sternum. The club falls from limp hands, its impact overshadowed by that of its wielder as the Orphan latches onto the cliffside and spikes Simon into the sand.

"Oh no ye fuckin' don't," you growl as it tenses to leap down for the finisher. You burst forward, rear back, and uncork your latest toy: a spring-loaded Amygdala fist that erupts from your sleeves and slams the diving Orphan into the sheer stone. The entire cliffside groans, yet more detritus shifting from the impact and crashing down. You retract the fist and yank Simon away just as a chunk the size of Liam flattens his former resting place.

He's out cold, the cracking of his ravaged chest upsetting the rhythm of his shallow breaths. You have no idea where or if he has blood vials. Your eyes snap back to your punch's impact crater, obscured by the raining stone, and drag Simon's limp form behind you just before the Orphan cannons into you with tectonic force.

It doesn't even let you fall, digging its clawed fingers into your stomach. Your neck crackles from the whiplash, the sound drowned out by the wet shearing of flesh as the creature clenches its fist and tears a hole in your abdomen. Your hands instinctively moves to support your exposed organs, leaving you ill-prepared for the vicious chokeslam that sets the inside of your head afire. Only the yielding sand saves your skull from cracking like a hairy egg. The hand moves from your neck to your right wrist, yanking it away before the Orphan stomps down on your shoulder.

It pulls with inhuman strength. Muscles tear, ligaments yield, and with a final heave, the Orphan tears your arm off with a muffled screech. It throws its trophy aside and rears back to drive its fist clean through your face.

"OY."

Its head twists so quickly that the arm in its jaws nearly hyperextends. You force your head up to see Djura, his burns a fading tattoo, revving his gun. He cocks and fires the Stake Driver into the air, tinting the ocean air with cordite.

"Don't you fucking ignore me."

[] Write in...

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CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Severed arm, mild concussion, slight case of disembowelment

Simon: Unconscious with cracked sternum

Djura: Mostly intact

Orphan: Severed arm currently held in teeth, puncture wound in left calf, damage to remaining arm from blocking Amygdala fist

 

[Tricia]

"Go get 'im, Tiger," you groan as you scoot for your life in the opposite direction. You silently promise your stomach a fine steak dinner if it can just hurry up and regrow all the important bits before you get sand in your large intestine.

The Orphan serpentines forward at a furious pace beneath the Gatling gun's imperious gaze. Rather than immediately fire, Djura waits for its final leap before unloading a fresh burst. The tracer stream races towards center mass, only for the creature's wings to carry it a precious couple of meters out of the line of fire. The old man casts his gun aside as the Orphan crashes down and slips into a boxing stance with the ease and comfort of a favorite coat.

His foe fires off its customary tornado of offense and Djura weaves with gusto that his knees are almost certainly going to hate him for. Heavy kicks chip away at his forearms and a savage backhand from the arm in its teeth visibly shakes him, but he roars back with hooks that force the Orphan to bend at inhuman angles. His speed is visibly waning, though, and the creature smells blood. What was an equal-opportunity smackdown turns into a headhunt as the Orphan bears down with ever-wilder swings, fighting as though it's personally offended that Djura's still standing.

It crosses the threshold between aggressive and sloppy for a single perilous moment. Djura slams a right hook into that moment and the Stake Driver roars louder than it ever has before.

The Orphan staggers back, a hole in its side vomiting blood and bone fragments. You lurch to your feet and whip out an exploding chain before it can recover. Awkward as the process is with your off-hand, you manage a fastball that digs into the creature's lower back and ties up its legs. Panic freezes the Orphan to the spot and, seconds later, the bayonets erupt. Its arm tumbles from its mouth as it bellows and its ravaged legs struggle to keep it standing.

You rear back to fire off a ward, but Djura storms forward before you can. The Orphan buckles, only on its feet through sheer force of will, and the old man uncorks a straight right that crashes home between its eyes. The Stake Driver roars once more and sheets of brain matter grant the black sands a newfound sheen.

There's no dramatic slump, no falling to its knees. Djura raises his hands and the Orphan collapses in a heap, boneless and still as its mother.

PREY SLAUGHTERED
​

"Nicely fuckin' done," you say, revealing to Djura the secret of one hand clapping. He gives a noncommittal grunt and fishes your erstwhile limb from the surf before tossing it to you underhand.

"How's Simon?" he says. He's playing it cool, but you can hear his heart hammering from here. Adrenaline's a Hell of a drug.

"Needs surgery. Think he's stable, but I'm not sure how much internal damage he's got. Blood vial'd probably do more harm than good right now, if I understand 'em right."

He nods and looks up, breathing deep and rolling his shoulders to bleed off the remaining fire in his veins. "Who do you think's got the better kill tonight? Me or Steffon?"

"Dunno," you shrug, slapping your arm into the stump a few times to get the alignment right. "His was a damn sight bigger."

"This one was a better fighter, though."

"True, true. Fuckin' Secretariat of ass-kickin' it was." You frown and look about. "Shouldn't this place be dissipatin' right about now? We killed the host, didn't we?"

"I am not the one to ask about this," he replies.

"Yeah, but ye're the only one around who's conscious."

Once you've got an even number of limbs again, you undo the ward around the placenta and shove it into your sleeves. Who knows, maybe it'll provide the breakthrough in stem cell technology that propels Yharnam medicine to new, less-heatheny heights. Even if it doesn't, giant alien clubs have served you pretty well tonight. It's like Granny Anderson always says: never look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, punch the gift horse in the mouth until he gives you more shit.

A whisper of wind draws your attention as you scoop up the Club of Righteousness and return it to its home. You turn to see the shadows of Kos' spines swirling together, a humanoid figure of smoke rising from her flesh. The Orphan's shadow stares at you, tall and placid and inscrutable. Djura huffs and revs up the Gatling gun, but you wave him down and walk forward.

You extend your empty hand as you approach, the shadow doing the same. Your gloved palm meets its insubstantial one and you slowly slide a bayonet into your other hand, holding it aloft so it can see.

It gives you the faintest echo of a nod. You whisper an amen and drive the blessed steel into its chest. Its form scatters around the blade and drifts, dreamlike, into the murmuring waves.

NIGHTMARE SLAIN​

​

"Do some growin'," you whisper. "Come back in another life and let's go again."

The sun closes its great eye and the world's colors desaturate around you, dripping away until the darkness before you is the inside of your own eyelids. You wake in the Chapel and the nearest Churchmen scurry to help you to your feet. You point them towards the groaning Simon, freshly materialized nearby, and they haul him to an unoccupied bed.

"Mission accomplished?" asks Eileen from nearby.

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"Oy, Djura," you say as he gets to his feet. "Ye got the kill, so I'mma let ya explain this one. On my honor, I won't call out a lick o' yer bullshit."

Sadly, the old man gives a rather bog standard after action report, accurately highlighting yours and Simon's contributions without bothering to exaggerate his own. You try to throw him a bone or two by exaggerating the Orphan's height and upgrading his physique from scarecrow to beefcake, but he corrects your corrections and plows onward.

"So the Nightmare is gone," says Eileen at the conclusion. "Weight off my shoulders. Not that I wasn't going to see this through to the end, regardless, but it's nice to know that's not waiting for me if something gets lucky."

"Never met a fucker that lucky," you reply, "and my nationality makes me somethin' of an expert in that field." I am genuinely curious what kind of Irish stereotypes are going to develop here thanks to you.

"Steffon still upstairs?" asks Djura. Eileen nods and the old man takes his leave.

"They're gonna be arguin' over who's got the better trophy for hours," you say to her.

"I'm in the same boat as Steffon. I'll step in if he starts losing." She turns to you, cloak on her shoulders and mask on a table nearby. "That was the last step before Rom, wasn't it? That your next stop?"

"Eh, not quite yet. Wanted ta do another quick sweep o' Central Yharnam."

"That works. We need a bit more time to get everything fortified, anyway; some of the Kegs' old guns are misbehaving. Do you mind if I tag along?"

"Be honored. First, though, got some packages ta drop off." You walk over to Iosefka, who's watching over the Church healers while they get Simon ready for his chest-unfuckening.

"Got those prosthetics from Gehrman," you tell her. "Where should I put 'em?"

"On one of the unoccupied beds, if you don't mind." She pulls another set of gloves from her robes; considering how many she's used tonight, that outfit must be downright sleevian. You oblige and wave goodbye as the scalpels and drugs come out. Eileen follows you out the door, passing by Agatha teaching the girls some sort of dice game, and you step back into the Yharnam evening. Despite the gargantuan quantity of violence your crew has inflicted, there's only the barest hint of death mixed in with the breeze. Hopefully, the air freshening service will stay bundled in once you turn on the metaphysical alarm clock.

As the two of you make your way back to the urban semi-sprawl, you ponder some appropriate prayers for Ludwig, Maria, the Orphan, and the others swallowed up by the nightmare. Something comes to mind right about the point when the ghost of incense rejoins the city's fucked-up gumbo of scents.

"For we are well aware that when the tent that houses us on earth is folded up, there is a house for us from God, not made by human hands but everlasting, in the heavens.

And in this earthly state we do indeed groan,

longing to put on our heavenly home over the present one; if indeed we are to be found clothed rather than stripped bare.

Yes, indeed, in this present tent, we groan under the burden, not that we want to be stripped of our covering, but because we want to be covered with a second garment on top, so that what is mortal in us may be swallowed up by life.

It is God who designed us for this very purpose, and he has given us the Spirit as a pledge.

We are always full of confidence, then, realising that as long as we are at home in the body we are exiled from the Lord,

guided by faith and not yet by sight;

we are full of confidence, then, and long instead to be exiled from the body and to be at home with the Lord.

And so whether at home or exiled, we make it our ambition to please him.

For at the judgement seat of Christ we are all to be seen for what we are, so that each of us may receive what he has deserved in the body, matched to whatever he has done, good or bad."

You knock on every lit door you pass, some that once rebuffed you and some you'd yet to interact with, and offer as many variations of "come with me if you want to live" as you can. Even with Eileen to assure them that they can definitely trust the gigantic guy describing their imminent demise with more gusto than is warranted, you're rebuffed at every turn.

"Tough crowd," you say.

"Dead crowd, before long."

"Can't help those who won't help themselves, I guess, 'less ye think I should just kick their doors in and drag 'em out by their feet."

"Yharnamites are stubborn. They'd probably try a coup in the Chapel if you gathered up enough of them."

Twenty minutes of effort yield only a handful of willing pilgrims, including a young couple, two widows rooming together, and an old man who somehow got his hands on one of those badass Gatling wheelchairs you've been dealing with. You make a mental note to ask him where so you can get one for Steffon. He and Djura would probably have treads and an automatic grenade launcher on it within a week.

You do a headcount and produce an appropriate quantity of crosses to avoid a repeat of the gargoyle incident. "Ye mind escortin' 'em back?" you ask Eileen, handing her the lot. "Gonna go check on a guy named Gilbert I met when I first got here."

"Will do." She turns to the group and starts passing them out. "Everyone, stay close. There shouldn't be any trouble, but if there is, stay near me and I'll handle it."

You leave her to her safety briefing and get to backtracking. The boards on the window you threw a dead guy through are hanging on for dear life and, because you're still a petty asshole, you hop up and pull one of them down, enjoying the ensuing screaming as you zip towards Gilbert's window.

His burner is down to its last dregs and you can hear his coughs through the grate, awful wet things as red in sound as they assuredly are in color.

"Ye alright there, mate?" you say.

"Father Anderson?" he manages. "You're still alive?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Most people who say they're going to single-handedly fight a massive theological institution tend not to last long."

"Most people ain't me. How ye holdin' up?"

"Bad," he wheezes. "Very bad, in fact."

"Well, if ye don't mind walkin' back that 'accepted yer fate' thing, we've got a nice setup in Oedon Chapel. Doctor Iosefka's there, plus some Church defectors. Gatling gun on the roof and a shitload o' weapons, too."

There's a pause that you're sure you get the gist of.

"I won't tell anyone ye changed yer mind if you don't," you say.

"Oh, thank fuck," he replies. "Get me out of here."

[] Talk to
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[] Go to Byrgenwerth

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

The swaddled heap of unkempt hair and open sores that is Gilbert gives no objections to being bridal-carried to home base, instead voicing his concerns about infecting you and the others. You assure him that the plague doesn't work like he thinks it does and that you have faith in your immune system; even after becoming a Regenerator, you never missed a dose of your Flintstones vitamins.

To assuage his concerns, you prop him against the doorway so he won't tip over and inform what Churchmen aren't busy putting Simon back together about their new patient before bringing him in. They quickly assemble a makeshift quarantine zone on the unoccupied third floor with some nails and the massive curtains you used to put Ebrietas' habit together. After getting him settled in and checking on the new arrivals, you walk over to Agatha, who's still trying and failing to get that one paranoid guy from before to join the group.

"Ye doin' alright?" you ask.

"Quite well, thank you. I don't think the chapel was ever this busy."

"About that; are ye fine with this much company? Kinda feel like I dragged ye inta all this without properly appraisin' ye of the oncomin' clusterfuck."

He creaks his face towards you and offers a warm, toothless smile. "Father Anderson, I was convinced I was going to die here alone. My only company was the Churchman they sent to bring me food once a day and the occasional Hunter I never heard from again. You gave me company and a purpose. I'm part of whatever grand design you're putting together and there's nothing more I could want. I am more grateful than you can imagine,." He turns back to his quarry, whose debris fort will hit the medical area in about an hour at its current rate of growth. "Don't worry about me. You've still some work to do, I understand."

"Aye, more than ye know." You pat him on the shoulder and search for Eileen, whom you find on the roof. As expected, the Powder Kegs are deeply entrenched in debate. Steffon's tendency to swing the scoped howitzer he calls a rifle around to emphasize his points has the whole rooftop on edge, leading to various iterations of The Wave as everyone sequentially ducks. Liam, being unable to duck far enough, just stands behind him.

"Think that's everyone in Yharnam proper," you tell her. "Gonna go let Gehrman know what happened in the Nightmare and then head ta Byrgenwerth."

She nods. "What's the timing looking like?"

"I'll go after Rom in twenty minutes. I want everyone inside the ward by then. Would ye mind doin' a quick sweep o' Yahar'gul with Ebrietas and Liam? They may have done some kidnappin' recently and I figure Liam can point out where they'd keep 'em."

"Don't mind at all. Twenty minutes?"

"Twenty minutes."

She heads over to Liam, giving Steffon a quick telling-off for his irresponsible gun handling on the way, and you head down to the lantern. You find Hope tending to Gehrman's garden, a group of Messengers in their stump offering silent tips and judging the old man's arrangements. Mini-Ebrietas' tentacles help with the finer work that Hope's ball-jointed fingers can't quite manage. As always, the two of you bow to one another and you fill her in on your latest misadventures.

Kos is dead? Ebrietas droops and a handful of Messengers rush over to comfort her. I liked her. She was nice.

"Dead when we got there, yeah. Maria told us that was Byrgenwerth's great sin. Her kid tried ta kill us before we could get acquainted."

I don't blame you.

"Mama Anderson says I had a go at the doctors when I first came out and they weren't even armed. Understandable response on the kid's part, really." You turn to Hope. "Gehrman inside? Hopin' ta fill 'im in."

She smiles, no trace of sadness on her face. "He already knows, Hunter Anderson. I have never seen him sleep so soundly." She places her hands on yours. "There is much he wishes he could say to you and cannot. Never think he does not appreciate all you have done for him."

"Just doin' my job," you reply. "Slayin' the monsters, savin' the maidens, bein' a hero."

Do I count as a maiden?

"If ye want to."

She flutters happily.

[] Keep talking
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[] Go to Byrgenwerth

[] Go back to the chapel

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You roll your shoulders and attempt to crack your neck. Unfortunately, the Dream's comprehensive healthcare plan has left your spine in tip-top shape and thus ill-equipped for a proper crunch. "Showtime, I think." You look down at Ebrietas. "You keep everyone safe, alright?"

Will do!

The Messengers rattle their various weapons behind her and offer wordless battle cries.

You bow and make your way to the appropriate grave, soon waking just outside of Byrgenwerth. As you walk, you pull an old pocketwatch from your sleeves and give it a few twists. Twenty minutes. You give Annalise's disembodied head a wave and she huffs at you while you arrange the furniture into an appropriate relaxation position. If Yurie gives you lip for putting your feet on everything, you're sure you can write it off as the price of saving the world.

She'll probably still hit you, though.

"Did we forget ta take ye with us?" you ask the Queen.

"We wanted some time alone."

"Ye had a shitload of it back at Cainhurst."

"And yet We already miss it."

"Ah, don't be like that. We've put together a proper family back at the Chapel. I'm sure the Kegs can build a lil' wagon for ye ta get around."

Her scowl radiates through the iron, but she offers no comment. You do some stretches before kicking back on one of the comfier chairs, checking the watch periodically.

"We have a question," says Annalise after ten minutes or so.

"Shoot."

"Why did that cross of yours burn Us? And don't just say 'vampire.'"

"Any number o' reasons. General wickedness, consortin' with dark forces, worshippin' false idols. The LORD casts a bit of a wide net, honestly." You lean forward and fold your arms across your lap. "Any o' those sound right?"

When she doesn't respond, you sigh. "Look, there's really not much else I can do ta ye at this point. Not even sure if I can cut through that helmet. Spill it."

"We...may have employed a legion of Our subjects to kill Hunters so that We could consume their Blood Dregs to bear the child of Formless Oedon."

You purse your lips and bob your toes back and forth for a few moments. "Yeah, that ticks a few boxes. I've still got...eight minutes, give or take, so let's get some o' the sermon about repentance out o' the way. Got a lotta ground ta cover."

"Please no."

Despite her best efforts to roll off the cushion, you give her a heaping helping of fire and brimstone while ignoring her blasphemous proclamations that nothing could possibly be worse than listening to you. You're so deep in the groove that you almost forget to check the watch.

"Alright, ye get off easy this time. Got me a giant space spider ta kill." You stand, pull out some bayonets, and go through the motions while you talk. "Ye've got three options: one, I leave ye here and ye're on yer own when shit goes sideways. Two, I put ye in the sleeves and drop ye off afterwards. Three, I teleport ye ta the chapel before I do my thing."

"Third option," she replies. "We will sing a thousand of your Hail Marys before going back into those sleeves."

"Suit yerself. Lemme put a cross on yer mask so's ye don't catch fire." You grab a cross, then pause. "How's this gonna work?"

"Do you have some sort of adhesive?"

"Think I've got some tape in here somewhere."

It turns out to be duct tape, which does very little for Annalise's regal presentation. The fact that you accidentally attach it at an angle and can't be arsed to fix it doesn't help. With that done, you pick her up and teleport to the chapel roof; wouldn't do to pop in with a severed head while everyone's doing sensitive medical things. You prop her up so she can see over the edge, warn the nearby people not to lift her with their back or drop her on their feet, and turn to travel back before realizing you have no idea how to get to Rom. The roof squad directs you to the third floor, where you find Yurie rifling through old Church literature.

"Go to the upper balcony and jump into the moon's reflection in the lake," she explains. "I have a dimensional anchor set up there to get you back."

"How does it work?"

"It's a rope I found in the basement. Tie it around your waist before you jump."

You raise a finger to question this, but figure she knows more about dimensional traversal than you.

"Oh," she continues, "before you jump, please kill Master Willem. Painlessly."

"...What?"

"I couldn't bring myself to do it. It's long overdue."

She turns, uninterested in elaborating, and you make the journey back to Byrgenwerth with your impromptu two-for-one euthanasia sale on your mind. You take the stairs to the balcony, which offers a gorgeous view of the lake and the shoreline beyond. No driftwood, algae, or insects disturb the placid scene, protected twice over by the moon's shining face.

The misshapen lump on a rocking chair coughs, butting into the peace. The thing within the overlarge robes is only man-shaped in the loosest sense of the term, his face corpse-gray and uneven growths rising from his neck, He trembles in the evening air and stillborn exclamations stumble from his bloodless lips. You frown and pull out a bayonet; you're honestly not sure whether to apologize to Gehrman for this.

He seems to deflate when you drive the blade into him. Flesh and bone part with what seems like relief and only the faintest trickle of blood escapes before he goes still.

"Ye're fuckin' welcome, Yurie," you grumble.

Her dimensional anchor is waiting for you, tied to the balcony with a beast of a knot that you'd likely need four years' worth of advanced mathematics studies to undo. You tie it around your waist, give it a few tugs, and take the leap. You hear a splash, but feel no impact when you pass through. You land in a perfectly flat field of ankle-high water that stretches as far as you can see, featureless save for the colossal pillbug in the near distance.

There's nothing spidery about her at all. A dozen or more legs protrude from a potato-shaped body smothered in luminescent flowers. Her head is an asymmetrical menagerie of eyes above a circular, off-center mouth filled with razor teeth. It looks like the surface of the moon with eyes instead of craters.

She doesn't even react to your entrance despite your badass superhero landing. Jerk.

[] Try to talk

[] Try to fight

[] Try to set up a finisher beforehand

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

Where the Dream's meticulous craftsmanship hides its artificial nature, Rom's hidey-hole feels like a rushed copy-paste job. The water swirls in repetitive fashion and the horizon trails off into impenetrable mist well before the limits of your sight. Rom herself shows only the barest hints of life, tail twitching and flowers dancing in the stark moonlight.

"Evenin'," you say as you pull out lengths of exploding chain and walk towards her. "Name's Alexander Anderson. Pleasure ta meetcha."

She doesn't even turn in your direction. You get to work putting together an extended web of chains that she shows no interest in disrupting. Shame she doesn't seem to have a neck; would have been a perfect target.

"This is the good stuff. Three times as powerful as Semtex by weight." You run a couple of lengths under her belly, weaving through her legs. "Lost a lot o' fingers before I got the hang of it." Another bundle at the base of her head; you'll make a neck if you have to.

"Yurie and Ebrietas tried real hard ta get yer attention. Ye mean a lot to 'em. They coulda just sent me down here and not bothered." You take some moments to look over your handiwork, searching for places where you haven't run out of real estate. You've got enough munitions set up to punch a hole through an Abrams; Hell, there's probably enough to peel open two Abrams(es?) stacked together.

Rather than trigger them, however, you crouch down in front of her face. When the tried-and-true technique of waving your hand in front of her eyes fails, you close your eyes in prayer. If anyone can get through that thick head of hers, it's the man upstairs. You beseech Him to open her mind, give her a voice, anything to make this either unnecessary or at the very least sporting.

You open your eyes and see only your reflection in hers. Of course it isn't that easy.

"Fuckin' fine," you grunt, mustering your endless reserves of aggravating snark in a last-ditch effort. "Ye've got ten seconds before I roast ye like the potato ye are."

You back up, counting down in your head, and aim down the sights of your club. Seven, six...

"Ye bloated-arse, chicken-legged, weed-covered..."

Five, four...

"...pumice-headed, English dental mascot-lookin'..."

Three, two...

"...bastard offspring of a roly-poly and Buzz Aldrin's left bollock."

One.

The world erupts, your laser shot engulfed by the cataclysm of fire and smoke. You pour on the hurt, switching to bayonet volleys when your gloves start to smolder. Your eardrums hang on for dear life as you reduce the area Rom once occupied to a Chernobyl reenactment. Once the smoke and raining bug parts clear, carried away by the churning water, you catch sight of Rom's ruined form in the instant before it vanishes into light. You wait for the sky to come tumbling down around you, but the sound dies away with little fanfare.

You spread your arms wide, palms-up, in the universal symbol of frustration. Said frustration dwindles when you catch sight of a figure you're absolutely certain was not there five seconds ago. You jog towards it, making out additional details as you go. It's a woman in a blood-stained wedding dress, her flesh as white as the veil atop her head. Her strong cheekbones make you think of Arianna, as though this woman were the original mold since worn down by the ages.

"Oy," you call, "how'd ye get in here? Who are ye?" She's as unresponsive as the late Rom. You stomp forward, not in the mood for any eleventh-hour bullshit. "What's..."

You follow her gaze.

"Oh, fuck me."

​

The sky finally comes down, scored by the woman's sobs and the wailing of an unseen child. You rebound into consciousness in an unfamiliar chapel, tripping over your own feet and wiping away sweat as you stagger through the open door. The colossal moon remains in the sky, though the woman is nowhere to be found, and the earth rumbles beneath your feet.

Send lawyers, guns, and money: the shit has hit the fan.

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[Tricia]

You recognize the angular mess that is Yahar'gul beneath the red haze and take a few seconds to cross-reference your location with your previous tour. With the location firmly in your mind, you pull out your Bible and teleport back to the Chapel; if shit's fucked here, it's probably double fucked animal-style with extra fries back there.

Cordite floods your nose as you coalesce on the roof. The Gatling gun's roar, speckled with the coughs of its lesser kin, engulfs Steffon's shouted orders to the rooftop squad and you rush to the edge to see what poor bastard is at the other end of that tracer stream. It says quite a bit about the night you've had that you're only mildly surprised that it's a gigantic, electrified, animated wolf skeleton with the skull of a man. Ellis, the gunner, is struggling to follow its movements as it takes potshots at your barrier. To the west, Ebrietas is playing keep-away with a molten metal dog whose progress you can track by the trail of cooling lava running from its jaws, while lanky figures pour forth from a steaming hole in the earth and promptly get knocked back in, sans head, by Steffon's rifle.

It's a shame you had to go and squish the Yahar'gul bell ladies before they could take notes on proper sieging. Although you suppose having access to giant elemental murderdogs is a bit of an unfair advantage. You pull your club out of your sleeves, crossing your fingers that it's a decent insulator, and prepare to stage dive onto Electromutt's head before a massive hand spins you around.

"What are you doing?" Liam bellows.

"Savin' the day?"

"Your job is to deal with whatever place that corpse in Yahar'gul is connected to. Ours is to protect the chapel while you do."

A heavy crunch draws your attention back over the edge, where Ellis has managed to clip his quarry in the head. The beast stumbles, pauses to shake the blow off, and is promptly ruined by a cannon shot. More of the lanky figures scramble through the suppressing fire to replace it, joined by some pale men as nimble as they are grotesquely obese.

Some of them are naked. They are by far the most disturbing sight you've yet encountered in Yharnam.

"We have Ebrietas, dozens of guns, your barrier, and some of the most terrifying fighters in the world," Liam continues. "Do your job and trust us to do ours."

The barrier shudders under the combined onslaught of clubs and sickles and matchlock pistols the size of your arm. You don't have time to worry before the Hunters take the field. Djura's vanguard sends them flying, in some cases literally and in some other cases directly into the lava. Eileen's even dragged herself into the fray, carving into the intruders with the precision and gusto of an avant-garde hibachi chef.

Liam grunts and pushes you aside before jogging down the stairs, taking an outsized blunderbuss with him. You suppose having arms longer than two people's put together does go some way towards alleviating the range issues.

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[Tricia]

As pale limbs go flying and Ebrietas piledrives her foe into the dirt, you concede that they have this under control. You snipe one of the fat blokes on principle and prepare to teleport to your destination. The last thing you see before you dissolve is a colossal bone paw, easily twice the size of Electromutt's, burst from the earth and discharge enough voltage to render Yharnam's formidable candle industry obsolete.

Yahar'gul takes shape around you and you jog towards the dead man, struggling to ignore the ever-increasing number of petrified corpses around you. Some cower, some remain stoic, and some creepy bastards actually look eager. Whatever shit went down here would have had the Spanish Inquisition flogging themselves to tamp down their massive erections.

There's no giant portal or creepy stream of dreamsmoke or anything else to signal that anything's changed in the man. Tapping his cage hat fails to produce any response, and neither does tapping various parts of it in quick succession to produce a reasonable facsimile of Peter Gabriel's "Solsbury Hill." When you grab his shoulder, however, the world goes sideways in that familiar transdimensional way and you tumble through the liminal space. It's a longer tumble than usual, so you take the time to ask the LORD's forgiveness for doubting your friends' abilities. This is probably a vacation for them after the Amygdala clusterfuck.

Rather than the screaming Hellscape you expected, you wake in a room that wouldn't be out of place in Byrgenwerth, a table of assorted scientific apparatuses sitting neglected in the corner. You flick the lantern to life and open the door to reveal the second floor of some great hall. The structure reminds you of Cainhurst's library, two long balconies connected by narrow bridges. Support columns dot the walkways and an ornate chandelier dangles between two of said bridges.

Of more immediate concern are the gelatinous figures shambling your way. They remind you vaguely of the snail-women from the Nightmare, though far less solid, and their graduation gowns suggest that you've found where the actual "School" of Mensis went. They lurch and moan and occasionally vomit, producing fond memories of your own college days.

As expected from graduates of an institution that clearly didn't devote much of its budget to the athletics program, none of them put up much of a fight, although you do enjoy watching them weeble-wobble back-and-forth when you clothesline them. The nearby Church Giant with flaming hands, whom you assume to be either an RA or a graduate student, doesn't seem put out by your advanced hazing but does enter the fray when you invade his personal space.

You almost feel bad for hurling him into the chandelier. It really tied the place together.

Your exploration doesn't take long; unlike the Cagehat Express, one set of doors has the decency to spew creepy smoke. When you open them, the world doesn't so much turn sideways as turn perpendicular to any known cardinal direction and drive a non-Euclidian boot up your ass. It takes you about a minute to pull your head back together, after which your double vision clears and takes in the cave made of screaming faces.

Either the Nightmares share landscapers or someone's a Goddamn plagiarist.

The sky outside is choked with clouds, the vaguest hints of fog pooling in a miniature facerock valley. A torch struggles to shine through it from higher up the slope; a combination of stealthy advancement and intense squinting show its holder to be a mangy, lanky werewolf-thing with exposed ribs and, unless your glasses have been warped by the unknowable forces they've been subjected to, a sideways face.

Rather than charge headlong at you, however, it scampers away and you quickly lose it among the tumorous outcroppings of facerocks that litter the grounds. You spot more of the things in the near distance, only for them to leg it as well. You frown, activating a nearby lantern without looking, and survey the area ahead of you. You have two paths before you, one of which looks like a dead end and the other of which leads to an ornate building on the horizon. Well, buildings, technically; the two structures are linked with bridges on various stories. Whoever made these places really liked the letter "H", apparently.

In addition to the wolf weirdos, you see shaggy giants along the path, humanoid-ish but lacking necks or any real facial features besides, in a bit of a change of pace, the standard number of eyes and mouths. They spot you too and offer friendly waves before turning back to their rocks; it looks as though they've devised some sort of primitive bowling with the rock outcroppings as pins. None of them move to accost you as you walk along, but do offer apologetic gestures when one of their rolls comes uncomfortably close.

You don't take it personally. Poor bastard got a 4-10 split; he's suffering enough.

You shove the massive doors open and step inside. Gigantic spiders quickly recede into the ceiling, leaving you alone in a massive foyer dotted with what are almost assuredly eyes. Neither the spiders nor any other denizens jump you when you walk deeper into the cavernous halls, stopping every few steps to watch your back.

"Come on, we all know the script," you say. "I fight my way through the cannon fodder, make a few quips, and then have a proper fight with whoever's in charge. Hasn't been a winnin' formula for you lot, but there's no need ta abandon tradition."

No response. You look up to see one of the spiders waving two of its legs back and forth in what you interpret as "don't want any trouble." You don't exactly have a good history with spiders tonight, but they don't want none, so there's no reason to start none.

You soon find yourself on one of the connecting walkways and enter the other half of the structure. Mist clings to the ground and carries the echoes of your footsteps through the open spaces with unnatural longevity. The whole thing is less "Victorian Castle" and more "Fuck Dungeon" than the other half.

Unfortunately for the thing that bumps into you, that's what you were thinking of at the time, leading you to reflexively decapitate it. You look down at the body, a shrunken thing in the shape of a masked man, and raise an eyebrow.

"Huh. Leprechauns. Knew this place was missin' somethin'."

Once you've confirmed that no fountain of cereal is forthcoming, you look up to see more of the things milling about, seemingly oblivious to either your presence or their dead comrade. Bigger versions of them actually try to accost you, but fail to slow you down. You do appreciate that someone has respect for proper procedure.

You find an elevator near the point where you run out of floor. Despite your best efforts, you can't see the bottom of the chasm and, when you throw an aggressive little shit with a crossbow and a jester hat into it, he makes no sound.

After an uneventful ride up, you step into the open air and promptly get attacked by a crow with a dog's head. This begs a number of uncomfortable questions, so you kill it and continue along the outer walkway. A group of four, including a dog with a crow's head, move to halt your progress, but are swiftly cowed by a pair of familiar feathery lumps yelling at them. You figure it's best to just roll with it.

"Thanks."

"Sqrk," they reply, puffing out their chests as best they can. They're still smaller than their stomachs, but it's the thought that counts.

You soon find your way back inside and make your way down a metal walkway. Scattered ceramic and metal bits gather together into marionettes, which bow and sweep their arms towards the archway leading further in. As they finish their gesture, what looks like a metal birdcage slowly slides into view from the side. After awhile, a mop of greasy black hair appears, followed by a pale, sunken face looking sideways at you. He frowns, points at you, points at the marionettes, counts on its fingers while mumbling something, and then steps out in front of you. He takes a deep breath and raises his finger straight up.

"You're new."

The scholarly robes confirm what his cage hat all but spelled out: this is the guy whose dream you're in. He furrows his brow, scrutinizing you, waiting for a response.

"Yep. And ye're the host." Your steel sings. "Means all I gotta do is kill ye ta fix this whole mess."

"Wait. Wait wait wait," he says, frantically waving his hands. "Hold on. Wait."

"Got friends outside dependin' on me. Haven't got time ta wait. Give me a reason."

"I have three." He raises the appropriate number of digits. "One is that killing me won't get rid of this place. I've tried. Two is that the time dilation between here and the outside world is somewhere around 3600 to 1. Hour to the second. And that's a conservative estimate. Three is that if you run headlong at the thing at the top of this building, she'll kill you and then we're both fucked."

You pause, frowning. "Killin' the host has worked out pretty well for me so far. Ye're the host. What am I missin'?"

"I've been demoted. Look, sit down, okay? I'll have the marionettes bring tea. All they're bloody good for, really. I'll answer what questions you have if you'll answer mine." He tries to run his fingers through his hair, only to wince when his fingertips hit the cage instead. "I'm Micolash. Pleasure to meet you."

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[Tricia]

You size him up for a moment, then shrug and extend a hand. "Alexander Anderson. Likewise."

He smiles, gives you a firm shake, and makes a sort of fluttery gesture with his free hand. Pieces of the metal walkway rise, twist, and coalesce into fanciful chairs. The both of you take your seats and he calls the marionettes over to give high-speed tea orders. They bow before scurrying off into parts unknown.

"So how'd ye do that?" you ask.

"I may not technically be in charge anymore, but I still have, well, let's call it low-level administrative access. She probably lets me have it to keep me from plotting against her."

"And how's that workin' out?"

"Extremely poorly, as it turns out." He claps his hands together. "So, I'll let you go first. Questions?"

"Aight. What's that ye were sayin' about killin' yerself?"

He frowns, fidgeting with the cage on his head. "Bit of a long story. You mind? Haven't had the chance to talk to anyone in ages. Well, except for the marionettes, but that's basically verbal masturbation." He scratches his chest. "Not that I haven't done a fair bit of the standard sort, of course, but-"

"Gonna stop ye right there. Go ahead and tell the long story. Except that bit."

He nods, sending the cage along an impressive trajectory. "How much do you know about Byrgenwerth?"

"Visited a few times. Met Yurie. Killed Rom."

"Yurie's still alive? Good. I liked her. Not sure how to feel about Rom. In any case, Byrgenwerth splintered after the incident with the Fishing Hamlet. Master Willem stayed behind to study the cosmos, hoping to elevate humanity through greater understanding rather than using the Old Blood. Laurence went off to do...something. Still not entirely clear on the subject. My students and I embarked on a scientific exploration of the blood, hoping to use it to commune with the Great Ones. We set up shop in Yahar'gul." He fidgets on the chair, crossing his legs on alternating sides. "How is the place nowadays?"

"As far as I can tell, they just kidnapped people for a while until Amygdala and his crew took over. Pretty much abandoned since we took the spindly fucks out."

He raises his eyebrows and makes to respond, only for the marionettes to return with a laden tray in tow. The two of you offer thanks and mess around with the cream and sugar for a few moments. Micolash, once again, fails to take his cage into account and clanks his cup off the front. He shrugs, takes it off, and sips with gusto.

You do the same. Not bad.

Once you're done, he waves his hand and the marionettes scuttle away with your empty cups. He leans back in his chair and sighs while you furrow your brow.

"If ye can manipulate reality here, why not just make the tea yerself?"

He shrugs. "More fun this way." Rubbing his hands together, he turns to you. "Have you got a fag?"

You start to tell him that Francis says you're not supposed to call them that anymore before cottoning on and pulling out a pack. They're the misshapen, unfiltered monsters that Heinkel smokes after successful missions, unsuccessful missions, or when she's just bored and wants to annoy you. Micolash takes them with glee, accepts your proferred light, and takes several deep puffs. You let him enjoy them for a minute or so.

"And why couldn't ye make those?"

He coughs out a cloud and shakes his head. "When I first got here, I could. Then I started forgetting exactly what they were like. Little errors built up until one day I made a pack, took a drag, and realized they were garbage." He smiles with a tint of nostalgia. "Used to get them for practically nothing. Everyone was so hooked on the blood. Where was I?"

"Yahar'gul."

"Right, right, right. It wasn't magic, you know? We were a school. We used the scientific method. We examined the blood under microscopes, used lab rats, had control groups. Scientific."

"And the cages?" you say.

He turns to his discarded headwear and puts it back in place. "Acoustics. It's all about frequencies, you understand. Designed the alloy myself." He raps his knuckles against the mesh, then frowns. "Should have put a hatch on the front. Would have made eating and drinking easier. Dammit."

You clear your throat, attempting to ease his train of thought back onto the track. He takes the hint.

"In any case, we managed to isolate the frequency emitted by a Great One. The plan was to use a large amount of blood as a catalyst to break through the barrier between it and the waking world, allowing us to create our own pocket realm with its power and our mental direction. Hence the time dilation. More time for research."

You frown. "And where'd the blood come from?"

He twiddles the cigarette in his fingers, stretching out his exhalation as long as possible. "Some volunteers. Mostly people we kidnapped. A lot of them had terminal illnesses, at least." He sighs, letting his arm flop down. "I was a bit drunk on power at the time."

"We'll deal with that later. Go on."

"We had the whole ritual planned out. Had four chalkboards' worth of equations. Triple-checked. Got everyone together, made a big ceremony of the thing." He slumps forward, holding his cage in his hands. "Our variable for Rom's influence was wrong. Only explanation. I've rewritten the formula here more times than I can count."

"That where all the petrified fuckers in Yahar'gul came from?"

He nods. "And on top of everything, the Great One was bait. The thing upstairs hijacked my connection."

"What happened then?"

"Raged for a while. Tried to kill myself out of spite. When that didn't take, I did the sensible thing and went mad. Had grand plans for when a Hunter would show up. I'd howl and rave and trick him with illusions and make him chase me all through a labyrinth." He lights another cigarette with your aid. "Think I went so far off the deep end that I eventually came back around the other side. Made all the monsters out there stop hunting things. Cut down the bait." He leans back, blowing a cloud straight up. "Gods, it's the saddest thing. Basically an overgrown brain with eyes. Can't even tell if it thinks; my guess is it does, but just can't communicate. The thing upstairs kept it chained up and sending out a frequency that induces frenzy. I pulled the lever on the pulley holding it up and hoped the drop killed it."

"Did it?"

"Haven't checked." He leans forward once again; this man is not built to hold still. "My turn. What's your story?"

You tell it. The marionettes stop by once in a while to offer tea, biscuits, and occasionally chocolate. Micolash's memory proves more stout on their flavor than on the cigarettes. When you finish, he gets up and walks around for a short while before returning to his seat.

"You've been busy."

"Don't I fuckin' know it. My turn again?"

"Go ahead."

"What exactly is the thing upstairs?"

"It, as far as I can tell, is another Great One, taller than any man with eight arms and six sickles. It's looking over an infant of its kind, which I'd bet a considerable amount of money is what's dreaming of Yharnam. That was the point of the bait: to get us to establish contact and allow it access to the waking world." He drums his feet on the ground. "Had a member of Laurence's Choir show up at one point. Must have recreated the ritual. He had a go at the thing."

"How'd he do?"

"Lasted seven seconds."

"I'd make a crack about stamina, but that's already a joke." You shift . "Wonder if he screamed somethin' about bees."

"...What?"

"Where I'm from, there's an actor named Nicolas Cage who's a bit of a nutter. Nicolas Cage, Micolash Cage. Hang on, think I've got a picture somewhere." You pull your phone out from your sleeves and use its remaining 2% of battery to scroll through your saved pictures until you find one of the iconic Wicker Man scene.

"Huh. That is pretty funny."

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