You lock eyes with Gehrman for a tense moment. His statement had a tone of friendly warning, like someone telling a friend not to headbutt bee hives for his own sake, but you still get the sense you're staring down a very, very deep well with something terrible at the bottom.
"Not for you or I ta judge whether the lass's a person or not. That's the LORD's decision ta make. Who am I ta deny the hope of salvation?
"But," you continue before he has a chance to interject, "I'm thinkin' that'll be a long conversation between you and me, one we'll have ta save for another time. Meanwhile, ye'll probably wanna take a look at this while I tell ye 'bout the asshole what did it and what I did ta him."
You dig deep in your sleeves and retrieve your fractured club, offering it to Gehrman for inspection. The old man seems to toy with the idea of treating "another time" as "ten seconds after you said that" before sighing and taking the proffered weapon. He turns the thing around in his hands, examining the assorted nicks and slices before moving on to the obvious point of interest.
"Right through the chitin and a good way into the bone as well. I'm actually impressed; did a human do this?"
"In the strictest sense o' the term, I suppose. Apparently they crammed some prick with a katana full o' blood echoes so they could point him at things they didn't like and then run away. He showed up once we'd finished stormin' the Cathedral."
He raises an eyebrow. "What sort of katana?"
"A damn sharp one. Plus, it drank his blood or somethin' like that. Glowed all red."
"Ah, the chikage," he says. "Haven't seen that weapon in some time. Certainly a clever design; over-reliant on the early kill, but lethal in the right hands."
He's transitioned smoothly back into business, his earlier uncharacteristic emotion nowhere to be found.
"And judging by this, it certainly was in the right hands. What was this man like?"
"Fast," you say. "Strong. Just had no clue how ta fight. The vicar we had a chat with said they'd just tie up beasts and Hunters and let him kill them for the echoes."
A severe frown creases his face and he wheels his way over to the workbench, producing an array of twisted implements you're amazed he didn't lose several fingers in the process of mastering. After pulling some assorted chunks of Mediocre One from a drawer, he begins his work.
No duct tape in sight. The man is a true master.
"An integral part of being a Hunter," he says between thwacks, "is respect for one's quarry. You're free to hate them, of course, but there's a sort of bond that develops in combat. It's as important to a Hunter as the skills they hone. Someone gaining strength by binding their opposition and treating them purely as fodder is," he clenches his fist and you swear you can see the metal tool crack, "appalling. I trust you killed him?"
"Aye. He chewed me up good for a bit, but nobody's killin' me without some real skill." I'm flattered.
He grunts approvingly and returns to his ministrations. Not wishing to interrupt him and inadvertently correct the aforementioned finger issue, you take a seat and relax.
You wonder what Francis would think of you now. You remember how mortified he was when you gave him that Jötunn head as a welcoming gift to the Vatican, but maybe that was just because you hadn't showered since cutting your way out of its digestive tract.
"Father Anderson," he says after some time, "you've felled a Great One and torn out the heart of the Healing Church. I must admit I'm curious what's next."
"The Church's pet alien," you say. "Name o' Ebrietas."
He visibly stiffens at the name. Though he tries to play it off, there's no disguising the impact it made on him.
"Well," he says, voice steady, "whatever this 'Ebrietas' might be, you have quite a bit of momentum going for you." He looks back over his shoulder. "Nearly finished; you'll be on your way shortly."
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