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

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Oh Hey, it's This Guy Again
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    • Eileen would probably want you to hang back and plan things out with her, but wouldn't it be badass if you just walked in and told her you'd solved her problem? You know just how to do so, after all.

    "Why's he smiling?" says Liam to Ebrietas. The Churchmen instinctively flinch and one of them falls down the stairs in a panic.

    "I'm smilin' 'cus I've got an idea."

    That sounds really ominous.

    "Nah, it'll be great. Here's what I'm thinkin': the next time ye sense one o' them summonin' somethin', ye toss me at them."

    Toss you?

    "Yeah! Imagine the looks on their faces when they see the righteous fist o' God crashin' down on them from the sky."

    Ebrietas looks at you for a second, then slithers over to the edge and looks over.

    We're very high up. And I've never really tossed anything that I wasn't trying to break.

    "Look, I'll be fine; ye trust me, don't ye?"

    I do.

    "Right then; let's get everythin' ready."

    Liam, who has been watching you with an increasingly incredulous look on his face, seems to be twitching in place as Ebrietas gently wraps a tentacle around you and hoists you into the air.

    "Okay, now just put yer left le...tentacle forward and be sure ta shift yer weight as ye throw."

    Okay.

    "Are you serious?" Liam blurts out.

    "I'm always serious, lad. Wouldn't be fittin' for a man o' the LORD not ta be."

    "I have worked with some of the most twisted, fractured minds in the history of the Church and you are by far the most insane individual I have ever encountered."

    "Look, if ye don't have any constructive criticism for the plan, then I'm not interested in yer opinion."

    Okay, I've found one. Three, two..."

    You are surprisingly aerodynamic, you realize as you hurtle through the air, club in hand. You also realize that Ebrietas' concerns about altitude were very well-founded and that you are going very, very fast towards something very, very hard.

    Despite the air resistance doing a number on your eyeballs, you catch sight of your target: a robed, spindly-limbed woman delicately ringing a bell as a glowing red mass takes shape before her. You never do get to see what it turns out to be, unfortunately, as you hit her so hard with an overhead smash that you more or less erase everything from her head to her pelvis from existence.

    Then your swing hits the ground and the recoil does to your arms what it just did to her everything. The rest of you makes a worrying splat noise as the falling bell tinkles softly and the summonee fades away.

    Are you okay, Father Anderson?

    "Worth it," you mumble through a mouthful of broken teeth. You slowly lurch back to your feet, arms flopping bonelessly in painfully literal fashion, in a complex multi-stage assortment of inelegant flops and false starts. Amazingly enough, your glasses managed to survive the impact intact, perhaps as a result of the rest of your face breaking the fall.

    You hear another ring nearby and turn, accidentally overshooting more than once, to see another of the hooded women gawping at you nearby. Her own bell falls from her hands as her brain seemingly encounters a fatal exception. This leaves her horribly ill-prepared for your charging headbutt and followup stomping frenzy.

    "That's just rude, starin' at someone who hasn't even had a chance ta put their face on yet."

    You're getting there, at least; it's just nose cartilage and a few molars to go. You're still more handsome than Major Fettarsche and his bitey little twat brigade.

    Sadly, there are no buddies nearby to high-five for that burn, but perhaps those three gentleman who have just surrounded you may be of service. Two of them look almost identical, sporting iron helms atop heavy black robes, but the third has only the helm and a pair of boxers. You'll just go ahead and assume he's the Curly of the team.

    They show a bit more creativity in their weapon selection, with one spearman, one cane-wielder, and Curly sporting a set of gnarly-looking bones lashed together into a makeshift gauntlet. Caneboy, who is now Larry by process of induction, is also lugging a slightly larger and less elegant variant of the Kegs' portable cannon.

    "You're coming with us," says Moe in a helmet-enhanced baritone.

    "Well that's awfully presumptuous of ye. Have ye considered my feelin's?"

    That seems to throw them off; their carefully-crafted triangle of intimidation wobbles a bit, losing a fair bit of menace as they glance at one another.

    "That was a command, not a statement."

    "And what if I don't want ta come with ye?"

    "Then we'll be forced to use...force."

    "Ye can't go through life forcin' yer way through all yer problems, ye know? We're all adults here; let's talk this out."

    This was clearly not what they were expecting; you barely conceal a grin at their obvious discomfort. Just gotta keep them buffaloed until your arms have there we go.

    Larry, who seemed on the cusp of a quality retort, goes down from a combination of a high-speed bayonet and some really shoddy ironwork on his helmet. Moe raises his spear, which you now realize doubles as a gun barrel, but quickly brings it down when Curly, being Curly, elects to enter melee range against a man twice his size. You step inside his swing, allowing his forearm to thunk harmlessly into the side of your head, and deliver the kind of body shot that could make a man's descendants shit themselves.

    This causes Curly to fold himself into a more rounded, streamlined shape, perfect for hurling at his friend at uncomfortably high speeds. In his panic, Moe winds up catching Curly on the tip of his spear, the momentum bowling him over and producing a delightful ping noise as his helmet slams into the cobbles.

    "So," you say, strolling over to your fallen club, "have ye learned yer lesson about takin' others' feelin's inta consideration?"

    Moe spends a frantic moment trying to tug his spear free from his now-dead comrade before abandoning the thing and hauling ass towards what should be, if your internal compass wasn't totally bungled by your landing, the Cathedral plaza. You twist the club like this and take aim, only for some kill-stealing fuckhole to absolutely ruin Moe's head with a hammer strike.

    Just before you start laying into him for his unacceptable shenanigans, you recognize said fuckhole as an extremely pissed Alfred. Upon returning his hammer to its back holster, he stomps towards you and raises his arm in what seems, for one fleeting instant, like your much-desired high five. Alas, the second arm quickly joins it and he grips you by the collar, lifting you with surprising ease.

    "What have you done, you mad bastard?! What have you done?!"

    [] Explain yourself
    -[] Every ridiculous escapade
    -[] Certain ridiculous escapades

    [] Don't explain yourself

    [] Ask him what he's been up to

    [] Write in...
     
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    • [X] Ask him what he's been up to
    -[X] Then explain yourself
    --[X] Every ridiculous escapade

    Priorities are important. :D
     
    [X] Tell him he can see what you've done for himself.
    -[X] Grab him and drag him back to the church.
    --[X] Alfred! Good Ta See Ya! Have ye killed them damned bloodsuckers yet? I've been having a blast!
     
    Wait, the shadows? Then where are the snakes? I can't play the game, no console, but I've seen some LP's.
     
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