Anderson Quest: Killing Vampires and Werewolves and Leprechauns (Hellsing/Bloodborne)
- Thread starter Tricia
- Start date
Strunkriidiisk
THE LEGEND
- Location
- Canada
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Eh? You suggested stuffing her into our sleeves? I thought I was being original.
Spector29
It Only Gets Worse From Here
[X] "I have an idea. Do ye need t'breathe, and how d'ye feel about gazin' into infinity for a while?"
-[X] If those aren't issues, commence Operation Vanderson (Take Two) and carry Ebrietas out in your sleeves.
-[X] If either is an issue, then start blasting a passage she can get out through with explosive bayonets.
-[X] Try and find enough curtains, blankets, or whatever else to stitch together to make Ebrietas a serviceable robe or cloak. It ought to make the others a bit less likely to start foaming at the mouth when they see her.
This is a plan without fault or possibility of error.
-[X] If those aren't issues, commence Operation Vanderson (Take Two) and carry Ebrietas out in your sleeves.
-[X] If either is an issue, then start blasting a passage she can get out through with explosive bayonets.
-[X] Try and find enough curtains, blankets, or whatever else to stitch together to make Ebrietas a serviceable robe or cloak. It ought to make the others a bit less likely to start foaming at the mouth when they see her.
This is a plan without fault or possibility of error.
A page or two back.
I like how I wasn't the one to suggest Nun-brietas this time.
SOVIET VICTORY.
Again.
I wonder what would happen if we put Ebrietas in our sleeves, then traveled to the Hunter's Dream...
SOVIET VICTORY.
And I beat you to it six pages earlier, so I win.
Again.
I wonder what would happen if we put Ebrietas in our sleeves, then traveled to the Hunter's Dream...
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Sonnofa- Its true what they say. There aint no original ideas no more.
Strunkriidiisk
THE LEGEND
- Location
- Canada
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I was mainly just trying to suggest a covering, so she doesn't accidentally traumatize Iosefka and/or the kids.
Is she more traumatizing than the dead mediocre one on the lawn?
Strunkriidiisk
THE LEGEND
- Location
- Canada
- Pronouns
- He/Him
'Dead' is the operative word there. It doesn't look so scary while it's being gnawed on by Connor, Murphy, and their motley crew.
- Location
- USA
.....so chances of Things Happening to our Crows due to feasting on the carcass of the Mediocre One?
Strunkriidiisk
THE LEGEND
- Location
- Canada
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You mean more so than they already have?
The crows transform into beings like Weaponsmith Ornifex.
Calling it now.
Calling it now.
Can we make a detour to Vicar Amelia first? See if Ebrietas can do anything about her condition, or at least communicate with her.
Omake: Orientation Day
Also, here's the omake I promised.
Jorge Mario Bergoglio, the man who in two short months would become the 266th man to ascend to the papacy, sipped his tea appreciatively, nodding to the waiter. The latter bowed and, after Bergoglio's host expressed his own satisfaction, walked stiffly from the room with his Swiss Guard escort.
Said host, Pope Benedict XVI, groaned slightly as he stretched to place his cup back in its saucer. Bergoglio, fresh off of his own 77th birthday, frowned at seeing His Holiness' discomfort. Benedict had been planning his abdication for months now and was simply waiting for the appropriate time to do so; while the customary theatrics of "choosing his successor" would occur upon his exit, he and the rest of the Church leadership had chosen Bergoglio almost immediately.
Pope Francis, the Argentinian thought as he took another sip. It had a lovely ring to it.
"I do not wish to waste any more of your time," said Benedict, sinking deeper into his seat.
"You do not impose at all, Your Holiness."
"Be that as it may, let us get to the heart of the matter." His Holiness looked around warily, though the gesture was quite unnecessary. The halls to their secret chamber featured enough twists and turns to make a radar-guided missile stop and ask for directions and the room itself featured the best counterintelligence equipment known to man. If a fly broke wind in the room without permission, the Guard would hear it and politely escort it from the premises.
"I wish to discuss Iscariot."
Bergoglio straightened up and put down his tea, recognizing the severity of the discussion. "I have been briefed, Your Holiness, on the organization and its functions. I look quite forward to meeting this Enrico Maxwell."
"It is not Maxwell you should be concerned with. It is Alexander Anderson."
Though Bergoglio remained somewhat in the dark about Iscariot's true depths, he knew much of Anderson. It was impossible not to; his legend was larger-than-life in the Church. The one-man army, slayer of beasts, unstoppable instrument of God's will.
"And what about Father Anderson should I be concerned with?"
"Father Anderson," said Benedict, moving his hands to and fro as if to snatch an appropriate description from the air, "is...he is...dedicated. Very dedicated."
"Is that not a good thing, in his line of work?"
"Let me show you," said Benedict. He rummaged through his pockets for a while, eventually producing the top-of-the-line smartphone he used to remain in contact with the rest of the leadership and occasionally play Candy Crush on long flights. Though the room killed the living Hell out of his reception, that proved moot as he instead brought up his messages.
"Anderson spends much of his time on missions around the world. He enjoys keeping me updated on his work."
He handed the phone to Bergoglio, who slipped on a pair of cheater glasses and brought the screen up to his face. The picture, ostensibly a "selfie," showed a gigantic, fair-haired man in glasses and a young Japanese woman holding what looked like a very short, very fat snake up to the camera. The snake, judging by the blur, was wriggling in annoyance.
"I admit, Your Holiness, I still fail to see the issue."
"Swipe to your left."
Bergoglio did. Then he did again. He couldn't look away.
There was the giant man, whom he presumed to be Anderson, in a boxing ring, standing triumphantly over an unconscious demonic figure while the picture-taker, a fair-haired German of indeterminate gender, flashed the victory sign. In another, a blood-drenched Anderson appeared to be using the severed head of some hairless, large-mouthed carnivore as a hand puppet, surrounded by the dried-up husks of...were those goats?
"And he does this," said Bergoglio as he continued to browse Anderson's history of violence, "regularly?"
"Sometimes he uses Snapchat."
"That is, well, certainly distracting, but-"
"Sometimes he brings them here," Benedict sighed. "He is like a cat. A big, angry, foul-mouthed cat. He brings these things back to show them off. When I took the seat following John Paul's death, he gave me a tentacle the size of an eighteen-wheeler. He said it was from a kraken and that they, and I quote, 'couldn't find a boat big enough ta haul the rest o' his fat arse here.'"
The older man shuddered at the memories.
"When you succeed me," he said, leaning forward to grasp Bergoglio's hands, "it is very likely he will do something similar, so you must not be-"
"YER HOLINESS!" came a booming voice from out of sight. Bergoglio turned to face it, while Benedict simply buried his face in his hands. "I CAUGHT KRAMPUS!"
Overwhelmed by curiosity, Bergoglio rose to his feet and cracked the door slightly. Though the source was still well away, he could hear him clearly.
"I knew he couldn't resist some o' the little shits we-" A sudden crash startled Bergoglio, while the Swiss Guard held admirable poker faces. "Oh-ho! He's still a wee bit lively! C'mere, ye bastard!"
A symphony of expensive and irreplaceable things being destroyed slithered into the room, just about drowning out the holiest man on Earth's quiet sobs.
Jorge Mario Bergoglio, the man who in two short months would become the 266th man to ascend to the papacy, sipped his tea appreciatively, nodding to the waiter. The latter bowed and, after Bergoglio's host expressed his own satisfaction, walked stiffly from the room with his Swiss Guard escort.
Said host, Pope Benedict XVI, groaned slightly as he stretched to place his cup back in its saucer. Bergoglio, fresh off of his own 77th birthday, frowned at seeing His Holiness' discomfort. Benedict had been planning his abdication for months now and was simply waiting for the appropriate time to do so; while the customary theatrics of "choosing his successor" would occur upon his exit, he and the rest of the Church leadership had chosen Bergoglio almost immediately.
Pope Francis, the Argentinian thought as he took another sip. It had a lovely ring to it.
"I do not wish to waste any more of your time," said Benedict, sinking deeper into his seat.
"You do not impose at all, Your Holiness."
"Be that as it may, let us get to the heart of the matter." His Holiness looked around warily, though the gesture was quite unnecessary. The halls to their secret chamber featured enough twists and turns to make a radar-guided missile stop and ask for directions and the room itself featured the best counterintelligence equipment known to man. If a fly broke wind in the room without permission, the Guard would hear it and politely escort it from the premises.
"I wish to discuss Iscariot."
Bergoglio straightened up and put down his tea, recognizing the severity of the discussion. "I have been briefed, Your Holiness, on the organization and its functions. I look quite forward to meeting this Enrico Maxwell."
"It is not Maxwell you should be concerned with. It is Alexander Anderson."
Though Bergoglio remained somewhat in the dark about Iscariot's true depths, he knew much of Anderson. It was impossible not to; his legend was larger-than-life in the Church. The one-man army, slayer of beasts, unstoppable instrument of God's will.
"And what about Father Anderson should I be concerned with?"
"Father Anderson," said Benedict, moving his hands to and fro as if to snatch an appropriate description from the air, "is...he is...dedicated. Very dedicated."
"Is that not a good thing, in his line of work?"
"Let me show you," said Benedict. He rummaged through his pockets for a while, eventually producing the top-of-the-line smartphone he used to remain in contact with the rest of the leadership and occasionally play Candy Crush on long flights. Though the room killed the living Hell out of his reception, that proved moot as he instead brought up his messages.
"Anderson spends much of his time on missions around the world. He enjoys keeping me updated on his work."
He handed the phone to Bergoglio, who slipped on a pair of cheater glasses and brought the screen up to his face. The picture, ostensibly a "selfie," showed a gigantic, fair-haired man in glasses and a young Japanese woman holding what looked like a very short, very fat snake up to the camera. The snake, judging by the blur, was wriggling in annoyance.
"I admit, Your Holiness, I still fail to see the issue."
"Swipe to your left."
Bergoglio did. Then he did again. He couldn't look away.
There was the giant man, whom he presumed to be Anderson, in a boxing ring, standing triumphantly over an unconscious demonic figure while the picture-taker, a fair-haired German of indeterminate gender, flashed the victory sign. In another, a blood-drenched Anderson appeared to be using the severed head of some hairless, large-mouthed carnivore as a hand puppet, surrounded by the dried-up husks of...were those goats?
"And he does this," said Bergoglio as he continued to browse Anderson's history of violence, "regularly?"
"Sometimes he uses Snapchat."
"That is, well, certainly distracting, but-"
"Sometimes he brings them here," Benedict sighed. "He is like a cat. A big, angry, foul-mouthed cat. He brings these things back to show them off. When I took the seat following John Paul's death, he gave me a tentacle the size of an eighteen-wheeler. He said it was from a kraken and that they, and I quote, 'couldn't find a boat big enough ta haul the rest o' his fat arse here.'"
The older man shuddered at the memories.
"When you succeed me," he said, leaning forward to grasp Bergoglio's hands, "it is very likely he will do something similar, so you must not be-"
"YER HOLINESS!" came a booming voice from out of sight. Bergoglio turned to face it, while Benedict simply buried his face in his hands. "I CAUGHT KRAMPUS!"
Overwhelmed by curiosity, Bergoglio rose to his feet and cracked the door slightly. Though the source was still well away, he could hear him clearly.
"I knew he couldn't resist some o' the little shits we-" A sudden crash startled Bergoglio, while the Swiss Guard held admirable poker faces. "Oh-ho! He's still a wee bit lively! C'mere, ye bastard!"
A symphony of expensive and irreplaceable things being destroyed slithered into the room, just about drowning out the holiest man on Earth's quiet sobs.
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TikiTau
Commander Pangolinski
- Location
- Texas
...did...did Father Anderson Punch out the Devil?
Does this mean there will be mimes, and violence, and garden tools used to fight said mimes next?
Also, the cat line made me laugh. A lot
If you ever needed proof that the Swiss Guard are hardcore, there you go.
Chubacabra, actually. The goat sucker. Hence, all the dried out goats.
CrossyCross
A+ RIDING
No, that's a different picture.
He's talking about the 'demonic figure' in the boxing ring. The Chupacabra is explicitly said to be a "large-mouthed carnivore" being used a hand-puppet.
So...yeah, I wonder too if that's the devil or just some random-ass demon.
- Location
- North of England
- Pronouns
- She/They
Not sure if serious...
- Location
- A Place Miserably Bereft of Cats
Man, the only vote is to stuff her into our sleeves? As hilarious as that is, uhhh.
Not sure if want.
[x] Well! That went better than expected!
-[x] Say, with those wings of yours, exactly how far can you fly?
-[x] Because it'd be a helluvalot faster getting down on a pair of wings than by walking.
-[x] 'Course, we'll need you to hang back once we get to where we're going. Don't want the old man to think you're fair game for a becannoning.
-[x] Maybe we can dress you up in some of those old curtains. Not like the folk 'round here are using 'em anymore.
Not sure if want.
[x] Well! That went better than expected!
-[x] Say, with those wings of yours, exactly how far can you fly?
-[x] Because it'd be a helluvalot faster getting down on a pair of wings than by walking.
-[x] 'Course, we'll need you to hang back once we get to where we're going. Don't want the old man to think you're fair game for a becannoning.
-[x] Maybe we can dress you up in some of those old curtains. Not like the folk 'round here are using 'em anymore.
SETIFAN
Burning the midnight oil
- Location
- Germany
How do you get from punching out the devil to mimepocalypse anyway?
[X] "I have an idea. Do ye need t'breathe, and how d'ye feel about gazin' into infinity for a while?"
-[X] If those aren't issues, commence Operation Vanderson (Take Two) and carry Ebrietas out in your sleeves.
-[X] If either is an issue, then start blasting a passage she can get out through with explosive bayonets.
-[X] Try and find enough curtains, blankets, or whatever else to stitch together to make Ebrietas a serviceable robe or cloak. It ought to make the others a bit less likely to start foaming at the mouth when they see her.