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

Cathedral Words
The lull in your warpath of salvation is refreshing, but there's no rest for (slayers of) the wicked. You turn to Eileen.

"I'd like ta take a look about the place m'self. Care ta join me?"

She nods and the two of you begin making your own circuit of the chapel. As far as you can tell, the walls are solid and there aren't any obvious structural weakpoints. The doors that Agatha told you led to the Church Workshop are, in fact, rather soundly locked. You might be able to breach them with a running start, but you'd have a hell of a time closing them back up.

"D'ye happen ta have the key for this one?" you ask your new colleague.

"Afraid not, sorry. Church Hunters are the only ones who're allowed to have keys. To 'protect trade secrets' they said."

Hm. They open outwards, so barring them might be a little tricky. Should be doable, though. Maybe whip up a trap so that any Church fucker who wanders through that door catches a terrible case of explosions?

The other doors are currently shut and you can't hear much activity beyond them. This could be a good chance to take stock of the place from the outside.

And also have a discussion you've been meaning to for some time.

"Is it alright if we step outside for a moment? We've got some things ta discuss and we should take stock of the surroundin's."

"That would be fine. Is it about what happened at the clinic?"

You nod and turn to Agatha.

"Would there be an issue with us goin' outside? Ta see where we are in relation ta everythin' ye mentioned."

"Well, so long as you don't go too far, it should be fine. There're usually some Church Servants patrolling on nights of the Hunt, but they won't trouble you if you stay near the chapel."

"Thanks. We'll be back in a sec."

You walk out the door on the left, listening to Iosefka explain the details of nurse work to the girls as you do. Immediately down the stairs past the door is another cobbled plaza, complete with a well in the center, a smattering of haphazardly-arranged graves, and some more statuary. A corpse, which you're fairly convinced is a central tenet of Yharnam landscaping, sits propped up beside a grave cluster. Beyond the short fence, you see the densely-packed architecture of Yharnam, charming when not marred by the carnage at its base. Two flights of steps, one upwards and one downwards, form a Y with the path from the door.

Rhythmic clacking draws your attention to the ones leading up. An extremely tall man, nearly as towering as Gascoigne but without the latter's breadth, is making his way downwards, using what resembles a massive stake as a walking stick. When he looks at you, you notice that his face is bone-white beneath his hat and his eyes are so sunken you can't tell if he actually has any. You raise your hand in greeting to show that you don't mean any trouble.

Well, you do mean trouble. Lots of it. But not right now.

He looks from you to Eileen, examines you for a moment, then raises his stake and gives you a nod. He clatters his way across the plaza and disappears downwards, followed soon after by another gaunt patrolman.

"Are those the giants?" you ask.

"You'll know the giants when you see them. Trust me."

You both turn to examine the outer wall of the chapel. As before, nothing stands out to you as a significant point of concern. It's tall and stately, complete with a set of towers in regular intervals along the walls. You can see rows of windows where you'd assume each floor would be, but considering the apparent lack of indoor staircases, they could be ornamental.

"It's quite a nice chapel," Eileen notes.

"Aye. Shame about the kind of people who made it, though."

Well, no point in putting it off any further. You turn to Eileen.

"I mentioned that someone broke inta the clinic, right?"

"You did. You also said they tried to experiment on Doctor Iosefka."

"Right. The thing is, this woman said she was from the Church. Specifically, a group she called the Choir. Ring any bells?"

"Can't say I've heard of them."

"She said they're the 'Truth' behind the Church, and that they'd communed with some alien thing called 'Ebrietas' and used its blood ta create ministration."

You pause for a moment to give her a chance to interject, but she seems to want to hear this through.

"She told me it's that blood that turns people inta beasts. They made the plague. And now we have ta stop it. Y'said ye hunt Hunters who've lost themselves, and I'm huntin' the shits who're responsible for that. Will ye help me in this endeavor?"

She doesn't answer for a moment. One of the tall men climbs back into view and disappears upwards.

"So you're telling me that blood ministration is the source of the plague."

"That's what this woman told me."

"So everyone who's had the transfusion is infected."

"Ye...oh."

Oh.

[] Write in...
 
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Talkin' the Hurt Business
You take a breath and blow it out slowly. You're pretty sure you just fucked up big time, but Alexander Anderson doesn't dwell on his mistakes. Alexander Anderson presses forward. Sure, this usually results in collateral damage roughly equivalent to a tactical carpet bombing, but it gets the job done.

"Well... shite. That's a problem. But seeing how ye're apparently not too far gone yet, I say we make it a problem for another time."

She looks at you, inscrutable behind the mask, and you wonder whether you just made it worse.

Then she collapses into laughter.

She's clutching her chest, wheezing as she tries to catch her breath. The second tall man, retracing his steps, regards her oddly and you watch her, trying to figure out how worried you should be about this. Between howls, she reaches up and pulls off her mask to give herself more air. Her curly hair, more gray than black, bobs up and down as she attempts to steady herself with her hands on her knees.

She looks up at you for a moment, her kindly brown face split near in half by her grin, before dissolving into giggles once again. You let her burn herself out and replace her mask before prodding.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine," she says. "It's just that I expected you to try and comfort me like I was some wee damsel. You looked so mortified when you realized what you'd said."

It takes her two tries to breathe deeply enough to re-establish her bearings.

"Honestly, this doesn't change terribly much for me. I knew that losing oneself was a risk every Hunter faced and that one day it might happen to me. This just confirms it. I do have something to ask of you, though."

"What might that be?"

"Do you think you could kill me, Father Anderson?"

You look into the lenses of her mask, loom as best you can, and grin.

"I think I can kill anythin', livin' or dead, that walks on God's green earth." Or flies, swims, teleports, phases through solid matter, intrudes upon our three-dimensional plane from a fourth-dimensional space, or uses any other potential means of locomotion.

She nods, seemingly pleased by your bravado.

"That's taken care of, then. And to answer your question: I do believe I will aid you. It's my duty to hunt those consumed by the blood, so it would make my job much easier if we cut that off at the source. And anyway, it's been a while since I've had the chance to just go out and do what I know is the right thing. You don't get those kinds of opportunities in my line of work."

You smile and offer your hand, which she takes without hesitation. Your mind immediately gets to work coming up with awesome names for your team-up and you have to make an effort to wrangle it back to the task at hand.

"I've been thinkin'," you say as you turn back towards the chapel. "The incense does a pretty good job o' dealin' with beasts, but Lumnia, the woman from the Choir, said they were lookin' for subjects ta experiment on. Any ideas for keepin' the likes o' them out? Any other hunters ye know?"

Maybe "The War Hawks?" No, bad Anderson. Stay on target.

"Hm. We could barricade all but one entrance, make it into a chokepoint. Fill it with some traditional traps. We also have access to that barrier you used on Gascoigne's house. As far as other hunters, nothing's certain, but you might be able to get Djura on your side. I think I mentioned him to you earlier. He broke from the Church after they burned Old Yharnam; he's got as much reason to hate them as you do. That's assuming the old bastard is still down there, or still even alive."

"He's still in Old Yharnam? How long ago was that, even? What's he doing there?"

"A long, long time ago. When I saw him last, he said he would defend the beasts who still lived there. He said they were still people. Can't say I agree with him, but he did have this fantastic gun set up. It had several barrels that rotated and could fire at an incredible rate. He gushed about the thing like a new mother."

To be fair, you have the same reaction towards Gatling guns. Americans may have shit for brains, but that A-10 they've got is a Goddamned work of art.

"Besides him, Henryk, Gascoigne's old partner, may still be around somewhere. I originally came to Yharnam looking for him; I thought I'd say hello to Gascoigne and see if he knew anything before I dug too deep on my own. Henryk's incredibly skilled, but I've heard his mind's starting to go. He could be a liability more than an asset. Still, it could be worth keeping an eye out. You can't miss him; his clothing is the most awful yellow. I honestly think he lost a bet."

"Angry banana man, got it."

You can feel her disapproval through the mask.

"We haven't much daylight. Time to get to work," she says before walking back towards the door.

[] Ward the Church now

[] Go inside, talk to Iosefka
-[] Use earlier vote?

[] Write in...
 
No Plan Survives First Contact
As you follow Eileen back into the spacious confines of the chapel, it occurs to you that you don't actually know anything about Old Yharnam. Your incredible deductive abilities allowed you to determine that it was old and Eileen's comments revealed why they weren't using anymore, but you're missing a step between "there was an Old Yharnam" and "The Church burned it the fuck down."

"Why, exactly," you ask, "did the Church burn down Old Yharnam?"

"The Ashen Blood Plague. Debilitating, extremely contagious, and resistant to blood ministration. The Church declared the city a lost cause, set it ablaze, and sent in Djura and his team to sweep for survivors. All they found were beasts."

Gee, wonder why that happened.

"You'd have liked his team. The Powder Kegs, they called themselves. Brilliant, the lot, but a bit lax on safety and allergic to moderation. They'd have probably treated you like a long-lost brother.

"Anyway, they were enraged when they were ordered to kill the beasts. Most of them defected from the Church and declared that they would protect the "people" of Old Yharnam. Gascoigne, Henryk, and I all tried to talk Djura out of it, but he'd made up his mind. Plus, he'd already set up that gun by the time we'd gotten there."

You nod, aware of the negotiating prowess of thousands of rounds per minute.

By this time, you've returned to the center of the chapel, where Iosefka, the girls, and Agatha are discussing potential locations for beds and good places to store supplies. The doctor turns towards you as you approach.

"There's enough room here to take care of maybe a dozen patients. With the lift, it shouldn't be too hard to bring supplies, besides the issue of getting them up the ladder."

"Excellent. We'll turn this den o' sin inta a proper place o' healin' in no time. Meanin' no offense, Agatha."

"None taken. Doctor Iosefka told me you had a flair for the dramatic."

You'd be more offended if it wasn't true. You turn to Eileen.

"Well, we've got a plan, then. One of us finds Djura and the other escorts the doctor ta the clinic on a supply run?"

"I can escort Doctor Iosefka. Djura is an old friend, but we didn't part on the best of terms."

"He was shootin' atcha with that gun?"

"He was shooting at me with that gun."

You put a hand up to your chin, pondering.

"And the girls?"

"We can go with Doctor Iosefka," Emma tells you. "If Auntie Eileen is with us, we should be safe."

You hesitate, but remind yourself that Eileen is a monster. If anything manages to get through her, no amount of walls and wards would have protected them, anyway.

"Still, would ye mind settin' up a trap by the Workshop door, like we talked about? I'll ward the outside o' the chapel, but I don't want anyone sneakin' in from there."

She nods. "I'll scrounge up some guns before we head to the clinic. See what I can make out of them."

So this is what having an actual multi-pronged plan feels like. Iscariot's plans were usually just "point Anderson at what we don't like and run away."

"Before ye go: d'ye still have that cross I gave ye, Doctor?"

She nods, reaching into a pocket to reveal the smaller of your two gifts.

"Right. I'm gonna key the ward ta treat the cross as a key. The stricter I make it, the stronger it is."

You sweep your hands forward, filling them with four more crosses. You hand one to Eileen, one to Agatha, and one to each of the girls.

"Now, this isn't just a key. It's a symbol of the love God has for all of us. It's been my strength for many years now and I hope it can be yers." You kneel down and place a hand on both the girls' shoulders. "Take care o' the doctor and Eileen. Ye know how grown-ups can be."

They smile and, to your surprise, Fiddle wraps her arms around your chest. You hold her until she lets go, at which point you stand and turn to Agatha.

"How exactly would I get ta Old Yharnam?"

"Well, I'd have to recommend you didn't, but if you have to, just go out that door you and Miss Eileen just came in from and take the stairs down. Keep going and you'll reach a chapel they built over the old entrance. You'll have to find that entrance from there, I'm afraid."

Well, you didn't exactly expect them to just put up some police tape and call it a day. You look at Iosefka and Eileen.

"I'll knock five times, then four times after that. If someone comes in claimin' ta be me without doin' that, give 'em a warm welcome."

Eileen nods and, assuring the girls she won't be gone long, steps out the way you first entered the chapel, off to get trap material before the whole group makes their run. They wave to her and then to you as you embark on your journey to find a possibly-dead, definitely-volatile old man with a Gatling gun and convince him to abandon his ancient, self-imposed mission and join your cause.

Wow, that sounds bad when you phrase it like that.

Once you're outside, you go through the motions. The sheer size of the chapel prompts you to pull out two copies, just to be safe. The pages rise and spiral with a fury greater than any of the night's prior consecrations.

"LORD, protect this chapel and its people, for they are the lights in the darkness that even now threatens ta swallow the world. They carry the sign of Yer all-loving son on their breasts and naught but kindness in their hearts. Let those be their passage inta this bed of villainy that we reclaim in Yer holy name, and let those without them face the wages of their blasphemy. AMEN!"

The nails rocket out, but something immediately goes wrong. While the ones near ground level bore their way into the stone as expected, the ones above on this side of the building hit some sort of invisible barrier. You can see them hanging in the air and hear the drips of some unseen fluid.

Then the ward comes to life and the world dissolves into noise.

SmokeYis billowing from the unseen thingOand it's shrieking. It's notUeven sound; it's anHall-encompassing force, thick asUbroth and rattlingRyour brain until it feels ready toTliquefy. You can makeMout a shape, outlined by the nails and pages lodged in it, but trying to bring it into focusEonly brings more pain.

Your eyes don't want to see it. Your ears don't want to hear it. It's there but it's not but it has to be.

[] Write in...
 
Boss Battle: vs. Lesser Amygdala
Instincts you didn't even know you had are screaming at you to run or curl up or claw your own eyes out.

But they can sit down and shut the fuck up, because Alexander Fucking Anderson isn't going to die to this amateur-hour Thing That Should Not Be horseshit. You force your eyes open and give the thing your best righteous glare.

You get the sense that it's both glaring back and utterly schooling you in that department.

You still can't see the thing itself, but a good chunk of its body is covered by your impromptu piercing service and smoke is still pouring from it. You've got a decent idea of its size (real fucking big), at least. Maybe a few more points of interest will help with that.

"The fuck're you supposed ta be? Some kinda..."

Okay, wow. You put a lot into that ward and that bloody screaming isn't helping. Stab now, quip later.

You fill your hands and uncork a broadside of bayonets in the thing's general direction. After your first couple of throws, however, your arms start to flag. It's not just the ward; it's like your brain is too busy trying to piece together what you're seeing and hearing to give your body proper orders. You see a good number of them hit home, but you're not sure how deep they got. The screaming does get a bit louder, though; so, y'know, small victories.

It starts to move.

There's an almost audible groan as the ward begins to deform. It's trying to pull itself off the wall. The nails and pages writhe and twist and the ones in the wall struggle to stay put as the whole thing is stretched downwards.
INSIGNIFICANT SPECK. YOU HURT ME.
The ward gives with a peal of thunder.
SEE ME. BE HONORED.
Your ears are ringing and blood is pouring from your nose. Your body struggles to knit itself back together and your headache reaches a breaking point.

Breathe. You've been through the valley of the shadow of death. This is no London. And this motherfucker is no Alucard. You grit your teeth and open your eyes.

You can see it. It's real fucking big.

Its build, and only its build, is humanoid. It's got more arms than you can count at the moment, each topped with a clawed, six-fingered hand. Its oddly-thin body stands hunched on two legs with a small tail and its gray flesh, tattooed with the still-smoldering Word, is leaking red blood.

It has no face. Its head is a bean-shaped lattice of bone around a soft center of what are unmistakably eyes. Tentacles wave idly from its base.

As you watch, those many arms pull the bayonets free from its body and drop them at your feet.

You've got a splitting headache, your arms feel like lead, you've got a giant fucking monster from beyond time and space in front of you, it's dark, and you're wearing glasses.

Hit it.


[] Write in...
 
vs. Lesser Amygdala: MUDAMUDAMUDAMUDA
Alright. Situational awareness and mobility. You're usually happy to trade punches, but considering this one has a few more fists than you and they're all as big around as you are tall, attrition doesn't seem like the best plan. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. But, like, a bee that doesn't die after stabbing it once.

Wasp. The word you're looking for is wasp. Or maybe horneshitincoming.

Said massive fists begin raining down around you, two or three at a time. It's impressively fast for its size, but the punches still have to travel far enough that you're gone by the time they land. The confined space may play to its advantage at range, but it also means you don't have much ground to cover before you're below it. It meets your penetration steps with a vicious headbutt that lands close enough to nearly knock you over despite a lack of direct contact.

This thing is trying to beat you to death with its one obvious weak spot. That's dedication.

You don't get a chance to swing before it's reared up once more, looking for an angle to fire off more punches. By the time it's in position, you're under its tail and swinging your new sword at its leg. The blade bites deep, but you don't get the separation you were hoping for.

Its upper body slams back down, propped up by its myriad arms. The earth rumbles as it backpedals, attempting to pull its way back up the chapel in reverse. You take the opportunity to remove one hand at the wrist and are going for another when it clocks you with the stump. You stagger back, head ringing, and dive just out of the way of a couple more opportunistic slams.

Half of its great body is on the wall by the time you stop seeing three of it. As the head moves past, you take a wide swing, unused to a two-handed weapon and compensating for your technical deficiencies with enthusiasm. Three hands pop up to intercept it and you only manage to punch through one and a half before it wrenches the sword from your hand and tosses it towards the upward stairway, where it beans a fleeing tall man with an audible thud.

With your weapon lost, you turn to your other ones: the power of the LORD and your shit-ton of stabbing implements. It attempts to cover its retreat with punches and palm strikes from its remaining limbs, but your furious volley of bayonets forces it to use said limbs to defend its "face."

"Sáncte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio..." you say as you push your protesting arms forward again and again. A dead language for a soon-to-be-dead piece of shit. "...cóntra nequítiam et insídias diáboli ésto præsídium." QUIET.

You don't stop. This thing has to die right here, right now.

"Ímperet ílli Déus, súpplices deprecámur: tuque, prínceps milítiæ cæléstis, Sátanam aliósque spíritus malígnos, qui ad perditiónem animárum pervagántur in múndo, divína virtúte, in inférnum detrúde." QUIET.

You're starting to slow, your unending broadside and constant movement to avoid retaliatory strikes pushing your endurance to the limit. The thing is getting pincushioned, blades running from wrist to shoulder on multiple limbs, but you've yet to land clean to the face and it's nearly to the top. With a grunt, you fire off a wide line of blades, which it intercepts with two splayed hands. I AM YOUR ONLY GOD.

It moves to pull its hands apart, but seems perplexed when it can't. You're pretty sure the eyes literally bulge out when it sees the chain and explosives tying them together.

"Amen."

It thrusts the hands forward right as they detonate, taking both arms off at the elbow. It screams again, louder than before, but you can withstand it this time. Maybe you're getting used to it.

Or maybe your eardrums burst after the first one. Both seem plausible.

When the smoke clears, the bone lattice of its head is visibly damaged. It's down to half of its limbs in full working order, but it's also nearly at the roof of the chapel, well out of melee range. Its head begins to twitch and jerk and bulge. Maybe it's going to explode out of frustration? You really hope it's going to explode out of frustration.

[] Write in...

--

CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Extreme fatigue, mostly deafened

Lesser Amygdala: Four hands (of eight) removed, one damaged by sword
 
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vs. Lesser Amygdala: Titanfall
For all of the twitching, its head is staying mostly in the same place. Its primary defensive hands are ruined and the ones that aren't are struggling to keep it attached to the chapel. You're never going to get a better shot than this.

You don't have the strength left for a powerful throw. At this point, you're essentially swinging your limp arms forward like flails. The eyes bulge grotesquely and you can feel heat beginning to pour from them.

"Credo in Deum Patremomnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae..."

Two handfuls. Some explosive, some not. Doesn't matter. Throw.

"...et in Iesum Christum, Filium Eius unicum, Dominum nostrum, qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria Virgine..."

No more time. Turn your hips. Throw from your core. BURN.

You swing so hard your right shoulder pops from its socket. The blades rocket upwards and light, blinding and punishing, erupts from the grotesquery of eyes before you can throw the rest.

Windows burst and the chapel's brickwork, pristine and beautiful, shatters under the explosion. You're forced to a knee, coughing from the billowing smoke. You force your eyes open amidst the rain of soot and search desperately for your opponent within.

The great head is still there.

You fish desperately in your sleeves, searching for more weapons, when bone and blood join the cascading debris. The lattice is shattered, the soft skin beneath pulverized and leaking. With a groan, either from it or from the chapel, the massive form falls.

It's surreal, watching the ravaged menagerie of limbs twist limply in the air. You scramble out of the way, not even bothering to look back in favor of just getting far away as it grows larger and larger.

You make it to the stairway before it reaches ground and rattles the world.

When the dust finally settles, you see the body esconced in a crater as irregular and formless as itself. What arms aren't ruined scramble forward weakly in a desperate search for purchase.

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO.

You can hear it now, truly hear it, despite your eardrums stubbornly refusing to mend themselves. It's not even rage at this point. It's pouting. Its claws dig shallow furrows in the earth, lacking the strength to move its great bulk.

GODS DON'T DIE. GODS DON'T

The arms fall limp. Blood drips softly from the pulped mass of its head.

Silence.

PREY SLAUGHTERED
You hear a muted shout that could be your name. Or maybe someone freaking out about that thing whose non-Euclidean ass you just kicked. Either way, you attempt to raise your fist in victory. When that predictably fails, you settle for making the sign of the cross, hoping that it's watching from whatever fucked-up Hell it wound up in.

Then you tip forward. You can live with a broken nose, but you really hope you don't break your glasses.

You barely feel it when your body is caught and propped up by a figure you can't make out. Your struggle to maintain consciousness as you're lugged towards the chapel is scored by worried shouts just louder than your current bout of tinnitus. There's more than one person carrying you now, but you can't quite figure out why two of them seem so much smaller than the others.

The last thing you see is the mellow light of the lantern before you're carried away by the Dream.



White hair, a white face, and the white teeth of a smile greet you when your eyes stagger open.

"Hello again, good Hunter. How goes your journey in the waking world?"

[] Write in...
 
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A Talk with a Friend
"Well," you say, sitting up slowly so as not to aggravate your sore everything, "I got the shit kicked outta me, but that's only the second time I've managed ta kill a pagan god. Pretty good on the balance."

You don't talk about the Nashville Incident. And you thought Andrew Jackson was a bastard before he died...

"It has been eventful, then?"

"You could say that," you reply as she helps you up. The Dream is as static as ever, though its serenity is quite welcome after your exciting recent ventures. You stumble for a moment, but the Doll helps you retain your footing. Despite the place's cleansing effects, you're still bone-tired and you still ache.

"What manner of beast did you slay, Hunter Anderson?" she asks, oozing curiosity.

"Some kinda giant demon with eight arms. It-"

You pause as your knees begin to rattle. You're still not steady on your feet.

"Sorry, still a bit out of it. Jus' need a moment."

The Doll turns and pats the stone railing behind her. "Then sit. Take the time you need and tell me of your travels."

You nod and slouch your way over, plopping down in a terribly undignified manner. The Doll sits beside you, polite as ever with her hands on her lap, and listens to your story.

With nothing moving, it's impossible to tell how long you sit there, speaking of the men and women and monsters you've encountered since your last meeting. Perhaps it doesn't make a difference that nothing is moving; it is a Dream, after all.

It's pleasant. That's a good word for it. Obviously, you enjoy the wanton slaughter of the profane as much as the next proper Catholic, but it's nice to be away, to not have that chain you so gladly carry dragging you ever forward.

"Don't get me wrong, it was a proper donnybrook while it lasted, but I can't help but feel a little let down, y'know? Didn't even have to exorcise its unquiet spirit, let alone pry loose its squamous talon-grip on our reality. Jus' stabbed it a bunch and blew up its face and down it went. I'm startin' ta think that thing was just a jumped-up giant invisible spider. "

"You desired a more dramatic conclusion?"

"Right, somethin' with a bit o'...gravitas, I s'ppose? I guess I can't really complain too much, though. If they all go down that easy, I might have this whole mess wrapped up by mornin'."

You are fully aware that you're basically putting your balls on a chopping block, handing the universe a meat tenderizer, and telling it to go nuts with that statement, but if the universe can't handle a bit of trash talk, that's its problem.

"But enough about me," you say, shifting your body to better face the Doll. "Have ye found a name ye like?"

"Well," she replies, "my role is to aid the Hunters who pass through this Dream in any way I can. There is one thing they have all needed, however, that I was never able to offer. Gehrman needs it as well, though he does not show it."

"And what's that?"

"Hope," she smiles. "This way, you can never say there is no hope so long as I am here."

Well, you suppose that works.

[] Continue speaking to the DollHope
-[] About?

[] Look for Gehrman
-[] Ask about the tool
-[] Other topics?

[] Return to Yharnam

[] Write in...
 
Bloody Expert
"It suits ye," you tell her. "Now that ye've got it, keep hold of it. Tha's one thing no one can ever take from ye." You stretch your arms and tentatively get to your feet, ensuring that your legs are steady before committing your weight to them. They're still sore, but it's more of a "yesterday was leg day" kind of sore than the "I'm regretting that experimental femur removal treatment" kind from when you first awoke.

She gives you a determined nod. "I will, Hunter Anderson."

"Is Gehrman around? Found a little trinket I think he'd be interested in."

"He is in the garden, behind the Workshop."

"Thank ye, Hope."

She giggles at your usage of her new name and you wave to her as you ascend towards the Dream's sole structure. After exiting through the farther of the two doors, you traverse a narrow path that eventually opens up into a clearing ringed by lovely white flowers. Gehrman is sitting beside a sizable stump, inside which a group of Messengers appear to be having the time of their lives.

"They love hats. Damnedest thing," he says as you approach. "Well, they like clothes in general, but give them something they can put on their heads and they'll be beside themselves." He points to one of the little buggers that's happily bobbing up and down while wearing an upturned vase.

Hats are pretty awesome, you have to admit. Given the Pope's attire, you're pretty sure that's the Catholic Church's official stance on the subject.

Gehrman turns to face you, interlacing his fingers and resting them on his lap. "So, what can I do for you, Father?"

"I was told ye might know what this is," you say as you pull out the strange tool you found below Oedon Chapel. His face lights up at the sight of it and he eagerly gestures for you to hand it over.

"Oh, I thought I'd lost this forever. This, my good man, is a blood gem tool. Do you still have that blade?"

"I kinda lost it, actually. Had a bit of a scuffle and-"

You're interrupted by a tugging on your pants. When you look down, the offending group of Messengers offers you the blade, unmarred and clean as can be. You pick it up, thank them, and stick out a fist towards them as they re-enter the earth. A small fist rises to meet yours before disappearing.

"Helpful little shits, aren't they?" you say.

"You don't know the half of it. May I?"

You hand over the blade and he turns it over in his hand, popping out the smaller sword. He holds it out towards you and points out a set of indentations just above the crossguard. Two are shaped like stars, the third like a crescent moon.

"Weapons like these have imprints for 'blood gems,' arcane, well, gems that add certain properties. Certain gems can empower a blade with fire, or others can turn any cut into a toxic mess. Very useful when dealing with more...obstinate opposition."

That sounds more than a little paganish, but he seems so enthusiastic about his craft that you don't have the heart to point it out. You do have the heart to bring up another thing that's been bugging you, though.

"So ye've got blood gems, blood stones, blood echoes, and blood ministration. I'm sensin' a pattern here."

"It is a bit morbid, isn't it?"

He begins wheeling himself towards the workshop and waves for you to follow. You bid the frolicking Messengers goodbye and follow him in. He wastes no time in installing the thing above a workbench and admiring his handiwork.

"It's good to have it back. A Hunter wanted to borrow it to see if he could replicate the design in the waking world. Never heard from him again."

"Speakin' o' the wakin' world," you say, "I just killed a giant spider thing the size of a buildin' that prattled on about bein' a god. Any idea what that could've been?"

"Sounds like a Great One," he replies after a moment's thought. "Nasty things. Intelligent, powerful, and vicious. I have no knowledge of where they come from, only that they are a threat. They're not to be trusted; just their presence is enough to drive men mad. Should you find others, dispose of them as you did this one."

"Oh, trust me," you say, remembering Lumnia's sermon, "I'll dispose of 'em, alright. Buncha haughty vermin haven't got a prayer against the might o' the LORD."

Unfortunately, the pun appears lost on him.

"As I said, I know little of them. You'll find what answers there are in Byrgenwerth, I expect."

Now you have TWO submissions to the Byrgenwerth Complaints Department. Hopefully their customer service is up to snuff; you'd hate to have to make a scene.

"Would you happen ta have anythin' else that could help with pest control? All that stuff about blood gems and blood echoes sounds a wee bit heathenish for my tastes."

"I'm afraid most Hunters don't have the luxury of being picky, Father Anderson. If you need something bigger, there was a man here once who said he'd built some marvelous guns. He even said he was working on making a handheld cannon."

That rings a bell.

"Was his name Djura, perchance?"

"It was, indeed. How did you know?"

"Hunter by the name o' Eileen told me about him. Told me ta ask ye about the blood gem tool, too."

"Eileen? Bit of a bird motif, good with knives?"

"Aye, that's the one."

"She used to be a regular here, if I recall correctly. A Hunter of Hunters, putting down those who had lost themselves. Not a job for the faint of heart. Have you allied with her?"

"We've got somethin' of a partnership, yes."

"You're in good hands, then. There aren't many who could reach her age in this profession."

He turns his chair back towards the workbench, making minor adjustments to the new addition.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?"

[] Continue speaking to Gehrman
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Back to the Grind
"I'm a bit curious now, ta be honest. Any other memorable Hunters ye've met?"

He rubs his chin thoughtfully, looking down and to the right in the classic thinking pose.

"There was Ludwig, back in the day. He was one of the first to use Laurence's designs. Not entirely sure what happened to him. Irreverent Izzy, that's a name I won't soon forget. She was probably the best Hunter to ever come out of Loran. She actually fought with weapons she made out of undead beast bones, hand-to-hand with monsters thrice her size. Hundreds of scars and a story for every one.

"I've mentioned Djura; he and his associates could do magic with gunpowder. Of course, they experimented with a bit more enthusiasm than was prudent. Had some issues with turnover."

He makes another microscopic adjustment to the gem tool.

"It's been a long time, I think, since we've had anyone pass through. Can't exactly tell from here. I think I told you before that the Church forbade the contract, and since the majority of Hunters operate through the Church, well..." He shrugs.

That Izzy sounds like your kind of woman, although you'd prefer "reverent" to the current prefix. But then, nobody's a perfect 10 except the LORD. There's one other bit of curiosity to satisfy before you leave, though.

"Jus' one more question, then."

"Oh?"

"Ye've built all these fancy weapons, so why haven't ye tricked out that wheelchair? Some treads or turrets would be fuckin' awesome."

The old man adopts a grim expression, broadens his shoulders, and rises to his full (seated) height.

"It doesn't need anything like that. It's got me on it."

He holds that expression for about four seconds before breaking out into laughter. "I've been meaning to, but it's easy to put things off until tomorrow when you've got this many tomorrows to choose from. Plus, I don't really want to break these weapons down for parts. Sentimental value." He turns to wheel his way back towards the garden, chuckling. "Enjoy the rest of the evening, Father."

You wave goodbye and make your way down to the line of graves. You're probably still not 100%, but you've got work to do.

Hope bows when you pass and you reciprocate.

"Farewell, Hunter Anderson. Good fortune on your journey."

You kneel at the bottom-most grave and, as before, find yourself in the sparsely-lit expanse of nothing. You note the two new lanterns and make your way over; the first conjures the image of the graveyard in your mind, while the second shows Eileen, Iosefka, and the girls huddled around the chapel's corresponding lantern. You grasp that scene and breathe in the heavy air of Yharnam.

Multiple sets of arms move to help you sit up from the cold stone floor. Iosefka breathes an audible sigh of relief.

"I told you there was nothing to worry about, Doctor," Eileen says, her mask unable to entirely contain the undertone of smugness. Iosefka gives her a glare Hippocrates wouldn't approve of and then turns back to you.

"What in the world happened, Father?"

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Their First Step into a Larger World
"Jus' some big beastie with a lot more arms and eyes than sense," you reply, working the cricks out of your neck as you rise carefully to your feet. "How was your trip?"

Iosefka blinks at you for a moment.

"Trip? Father, your body disappeared five minutes ago. We've been here the whole time, waiting for you to return."

Well, you were in a dream. Understandable that the flow of time was distorted.

"I told them there was nothing to worry about and that we could go ahead to the clinic, but they insisted on staying," says Eileen. The girls nod in assent.

"Auntie Eileen told us you went to a place called the Hunter's Dream," says Fiddle. "What's it like?"

You think for a second, examining the chapel as you do. The Workshop door has some weapons piled up in front of it and the beginnings of a tripwire arrangement, while the rest are still closed.

"Peaceful," you decide. "A peaceful place with a nice old man and a kind lass." You turn to address Eileen. "Anyone been outside since I've been out?"

"We've been inside since you left. Why?"

"Can we go to the Hunter's Dream sometime?" Fiddle interjects.

"NO," you both bark in unison.

"What I mean is," Eileen says, looking to soften the blow of your simultaneous dismissal, "the Dream is peaceful, but getting there can be very dangerous. Maybe when you're older."

Emma flashes the knowing grin of one who has become "older" without acquiring such promised knowledge. You return to your interrupted conversation.

"Ta answer yer question, I was wonderin' whether that thing's corpse is still there. Care ta join me?"

Eileen nods. You give the same offer to Iosefka, who trails behind you.

"Stay with Agatha, girls. We'll be right back," she tells them.

You step through the back door, walking in front in your standard role of meat tank. Sure enough, your quarry remains in a ruined heap just outside. Man, it's a shame you had to blow up that much of its head; it would have looked great above the Pope's chair.

"Well, what d'ye think?" you ask, crossing your arms. "I'm thinkin' we could prop it up with some wood, make a proper scarecrow out of it."

On second thought, considering that Connor and Murphy are sitting on top of it and apparently trying to goad each other into being the first to take a bite, maybe it's not quite suited for that role.

After a few seconds of continued silence, you examine your companions. Iosefka's eyes are the size of the thing's and, while you still can't see Eileen's face, she gives the impression of one whose mind has been thoroughly boggled.

"Anderson?" she mutters.

"Yeah?"

"What the fuck is that!?"

"That's a Great One, apparently. Same kind o' thing what the Healin' Church worships. Arrogant bastard. Not really that Great, honestly. More like mediocre. A Mediocre One."

Iosefka tentatively steps forward and examines the exposed flesh of its head while Eileen shakes hers.

"Why do I get the feeling things were a lot simpler ten minutes ago?"

[] Try to make something out of the body
-[] What?

[] Re-ward the chapel

[] Bring out the girls, explain their new lawn ornament

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