The weird thing is, you're not angry. Anger implies irrationality, heightened aggression, an inability to properly articulate your thoughts. You are one-hundred percent calm.
"Well. Alright then. Ye might want ta go somewhere else really fast."
Gale whimpers. They may have pissed themselves.
"
Now."
That seems to bring their chickenshit instincts to the forefront. They take off like a shot in an impressive display of drunken coordination, avoiding the mulched remains of their comrades with mixed success. You take a deep breath and fill your hands with steel, muttering indistinct prayers to yourself. Your feet are so heavy that you're almost surprised the stone steps don't crumble beneath them.
"Anderson."
Oh dear, you've gone and crushed the bayonets in your hand. You've still got plenty, though. Always more when you need them.
"
Anderson."
"Eileen," you say, shoving each word through your teeth, "please get out of my way."
She meets your gaze and does not wilt.
"Don't do anything rash, Anderson."
"Wouldn't dream of it. I'm one-hundred percent calm."
That seems to satisfy her. Or maybe not. Doesn't matter; she's fallen in behind you either way. You know what you're doing.
A sickly blue humanoid creature watches you in the corridor above the stairs, its pinprick eyes the sole discernible features on its distended, undulating head. As you approach, it turns and scurries away into the room beyond. Neither you nor Eileen make a move to intercept it.
The Orphanage is a massive garden, lined with bulbous, man-sized flowers. The creature, along with another of its ilk, eyes you from the center, surrounded by thick columns. Moonlight streams in from the open roof, highlighting the oily sheen of their skins. They're somehow both gangly and bloated, visible ribs contrasting sharply with rounded bellies.
As you watch, the many bulbs bloom, depositing more and more of the things until there's a veritable legion of them, staring at you as one. Amniotic fluid drips from their limbs and you hear a faint, scratchy rumbling in the air, like a choked-up engine or a sick animal. You spread your arms wide, adopting a reasonably non-threatening pose in defiance of every screaming neuron in your brain. You are one-hundred percent calm.
"If any o' you understand me, give me a sign. Anything."
One of them, standing alone in the center and dry as a bone, makes the slightest motion. In near-unison, the rest begin to march, arms outstretched as they approach in piecemeal rhythm. The nearest one grabs gently onto your arm, and there's a second of hope.
Its grip turns crushing. There's nothing in its eyes, not before or during or after you take its head off with a single swing. The rest don't break step, and the thing in center just watches.
No bombast this time. No frivolity, no unnecessary drama. One blade per head.
Boss Battle: Celestial Emissary
They don't collapse when you hit them. They sag, as though some vital spark is sliding slowly out through the fresh holes in their heads. When you hit the one in the center, its body swells unevenly, bones lengthening and skin stretching until it simply bursts and showers the dead garden in milk-white ichor. The few that made it through your volley die with it, all without a sound.
Prey Slaughtered
There will be time for consecration later. There have to be more of the Choir. The assholes with tentacles for brains couldn't have been all of them. You think Eileen might be saying something. Doesn't matter.
No other doors. There's a lantern, though. You light it, and in its amethyst glow you see another foyer through a nearby window. You rear back and destroy it, leaping in with blades drawn and crushing another of the "failures" beneath your feet. Your glasses nearly fly off your head as you cast your gaze about for any trace of the fuckers responsible.
You're on the upper floor of the Grand Cathedral. There's nothing here but corpses, gorging flies, and the still, silent form of Vicar Amelia down below. Your bayonets clatter to the ground and you take deep, heaving breaths.
"No. No, come on, no. There's gotta be some of 'em here. Someone's gotta answer for this. This isn't funny."
They're hiding somewhere nearby, right? They managed to slip past you through that window you couldn't open without breaking. They're somewhere in a corner, knowing full well what they've done. Maybe in that room back there they couldn't have gotten to without breaking the glass.
"Don't fuck with me. This isn't how it's supposed ta go. This isn't fuckin'
fair."
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