You scurry to reach Steffon, who is maintaining a healthy distance from Djura as the old man stomps forward. You don't blame him; even the fat beasties are giving him space. As the three of you reach the bridge, he leaps into action, landing among the gathered men and laying into them with uncharacteristic fervor.
You and Steffon stay back and watch, occasionally dodging bits of debris. You're pretty sure that was an entire spinal column that just whizzed by your head.
"Is this normal?" you ask your compatriot. "I mean, it's what I do when I'm feelin' down, but I'm not exactly a model o' healthy copin' mechanisms."
"I'm not too surprised, honestly. It was hard seeing Ulrich and Kurt in that state, and Djura knew them far better than I ever did. It's probably best for him to get it all out of his system."
The both of you wince as a particularly unlucky Hunter gets blasted into the creek, then dragged scrabbling back up the steps by the grimacing Powder Keg. The sounds that follow could best be described as Rocky having a go at the meat locker with gardening implements.
"Well," you say, "I think that path up there is a shortcut back ta the chapel. Let's head over and let 'im cool 'is heels."
"Sounds like a plan."
After a short period of further one-sided slaughter, the two of you join Djura on the bridge, making no sudden movements as you approach the panting old man. "You good?" you say once he acknowledges your presence. He offers a nod in return and you lead him across, taking care not to slip in the frankly unnecessary amount of viscera he left behind.
You enter the chapel and make your way down the towering hall, only to stop abruptly when you see a figure leaning against the wall. You consider taking a swing before noting his lack of literal frothing rage. Still, you motion for the Kegs to stay a bit back, both for their sakes and his. Djura still looks a bit twitchy.
The man, lean and long of limb, turns to face you a few steps later, either unsurprised by your presence or playing it off extremely well. His clothing isn't so much ragged as ravaged, trailing off into fluttering scraps in multiple locations. A lit lantern and several pouches dangle from a cord around his waist alongside a long, kris-like blade, which he keeps his hands near as he begins to speak.
"A sane Hunter? A rare sight in this place. Who might you be?"
"I'm Father Alexander Anderson and these are the Powder Kegs, Djura and Steffon. Didn't figure ta find anyone with 'is wits about 'im, neither."
"I am Simon," he says with a bow, "formerly of the Healing Church."
"Wait, you're the Simon?" says a suddenly-lucid Djura, shoving his way forward. "Simon of the Bowblade? I thought you'd died ages ago."
"Not dead, just misplaced." He stretches up to get a better look at the Gatling gun slung over Djura's shoulder. "Are you part of the Oto Workshop? I've never seen weapons like those before."
"They were our predecessors, actually," says Steffon. "It's been quite some time since you vanished."
"Has it? It's difficult to tell in this place. How is the Church these days?"
"It's a hideously corrupt organization that's been usin' eldritch blood ta deceive and manipulate its followers," you reply.
"Good to know some things haven't changed, at least."
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