Huh.
Alright then.
Just seemed from the description that Anderson got more than a foot or two knocked off of him.
Alright then.
Just seemed from the description that Anderson got more than a foot or two knocked off of him.
Anderson Quest: Killing Vampires and Werewolves and Leprechauns (Hellsing/Bloodborne)
- Thread starter Tricia
- Start date
- Location
- Mirrodin Mk.2
[X] All your cryin' don't do no good. Come on up to the house.
-[X]But First things First. Thank the nice lady for being polite and helpful as she could. Your mother taught you better.
Also I am going to put down 100000 blood echos on the Crimson Fucker (Schrodinger Edition) showing up sometime within this story.
-[X]But First things First. Thank the nice lady for being polite and helpful as she could. Your mother taught you better.
Also I am going to put down 100000 blood echos on the Crimson Fucker (Schrodinger Edition) showing up sometime within this story.
Who know what he did that 30 years besides hunting...
SETIFAN
Burning the midnight oil
- Location
- Germany
[X] All your cryin' don't do no good. Come on up to the house.
Sucker bet.
Walker Of Chaos
Best/Worst Dynasty
- Location
- Sweden
[X] All your cryin' don't do no good. Come on up to the house.
-[X]But First things First. Thank the nice lady for being polite and helpful as she could. Your mother taught you better.
-[X]But First things First. Thank the nice lady for being polite and helpful as she could. Your mother taught you better.
Reeks of Wheelchair
You bow back to her, putting on an embarrassed smile.
"Thank ye for the assistance, Lass. Sorry for gettin' worked up a bit." Mama Anderson didn't raise no ingrate.
The little vagina-men re-roll their scroll when they see you start to walk away, sinking back into the ground. One of them gives you a little thumb-up as he disappears from view. As you walk up the uneven steps, you take another look at your surroundings. Something about them is bothering you, aside from the obvious not-Heavenness of it all and the fact that the moon is fucking huge.
There's a stone birdbath nearby, filled with more of the little men. Most of them are just watching you go, although a couple are holding up bottles of an unidentifiable liquid and making motions you recognize from your time in bazaars abroad. Past them is a line of graves, each with roots in a cup-holder-esque shape. Another birdbath, this one apparently empty, juts out from the small hill atop which the house sits.
There's one more grave, you notice, all alone.
You realize what's off just before you step inside. It's quiet. It's still. Nothing's moving. It's like you're walking through a photograph.
The almost imperceptible squeaking of well-oiled wheels greets you as you walk through the entryway.
"I s'ppose the Doll's given you the rundown?" says an old man in a wheelchair. He's dressed like someone out of the 1800s who was on the wrong end of a tailoring accident, his gray hair sticking out of a rumpled top hat and a wan smile on his face. Even under his heavy jacket, you can see strength there, rusted away perhaps but still plain as day.
"As best she could. Not all tha' useful though, ta be honest. You Gehrman?" You've been thinking of it as a house this whole time but, looking around, it's not particularly houselike. The place is like a scatterbrained professor's office, full of books pottery and loose paper strewn haphazardly about the floor. Along one wall sits a massive chest, presumably for storage, and a little dresser with a variety of odd tools atop it. At the room's head stands what can only be called an altar, complete with ornate candles and what you hope for the old man's sake isn't a bloodsoaked rag.
"Aye, I am," he answers, leaning forward on his cane. "And you're the hunter, I presume. Bigger chap than most that pass through here. Has the Dream treated you well so far?"
You stare at him for a moment.
"Okay, I get that yer tryin' ta get me ta ask questions so you can go inta yer 'mysterious old man' routine, but I just finished havin' a fistfight with an immortal arsehole who ripped my fuckin' heart out. If ye've got somethin' to say, spill it."
He laughs at that, shaking his head.
"No appreciation for good storytelling. No respect," he laughs. "You didn't come to us from Yharnam. I can tell. Not sure how you got here, but I suppose it doesn't matter."
"The fuck's a Yharnam? The Doll over there mentioned it, too."
"Oh dear, you really are a long way from home, aren't you?" With that, he grins again.
You glare at him and pop a bayonet out of your sleeve.
"Fine, fine. Yharnam's a city; a fairly important one, all things considered. Most of the hunters that find their way here come from there, as you've probably gathered. I haven't been there myself in some time, so my knowledge isn't quite up-to-date, I'm sorry to say. I do hope the Church is treating the people well."
You perk up at that. Something familiar at last.
"Well, now! I'm somethin' of a churchgoin' man m'self. What sort is it? Catholic? Or maybe it's some nice Protestants I can have m'self a chat with?"
The old man cups his chin, 'hmmm'-ing audibly and looking off into the distance. "Can't say I'm familiar with those terms."
What.
"Y'know, Catholics and Protestants? One spreads the word o' Christ and the other gets stabbed in the fuckin' face fer bein' a buncha heathen pricks!"
Breathe, Anderson. There will be time for stabbing and people to stab later, hopefully. Gehrman politely waits for you to get your heart rate back in the double digits before answering.
"I don't believe Yharnam has a Christ, unfortunately. They worship the blood; at least, the people do."
BREATHE. Yes, they're a bunch of pagan sinners, but can you really call them heathens if they've never even heard the Good Word? Well, you can, of course, but should you?
Ponder existential crisis later. Get answers from old man now.
"So where's 'here,' exactly? Am I dreamin'? Are you? Are we all havin' some kinda freaky superdream?"
"Oh no, hunter, you misunderstand. Dreaming is just how you get here. This place is very real." He taps his cane twice upon the floor, as though convincing you of its solidity.
Huh. Not like that makes any sense, but you'll roll with it.
[] So, what now? How do I get out?
[] What do you mean, they worship blood?
[] So what's your role in all of this? How'd you get here?
[] Write in...
"Thank ye for the assistance, Lass. Sorry for gettin' worked up a bit." Mama Anderson didn't raise no ingrate.
The little vagina-men re-roll their scroll when they see you start to walk away, sinking back into the ground. One of them gives you a little thumb-up as he disappears from view. As you walk up the uneven steps, you take another look at your surroundings. Something about them is bothering you, aside from the obvious not-Heavenness of it all and the fact that the moon is fucking huge.
There's a stone birdbath nearby, filled with more of the little men. Most of them are just watching you go, although a couple are holding up bottles of an unidentifiable liquid and making motions you recognize from your time in bazaars abroad. Past them is a line of graves, each with roots in a cup-holder-esque shape. Another birdbath, this one apparently empty, juts out from the small hill atop which the house sits.
There's one more grave, you notice, all alone.
You realize what's off just before you step inside. It's quiet. It's still. Nothing's moving. It's like you're walking through a photograph.
The almost imperceptible squeaking of well-oiled wheels greets you as you walk through the entryway.
"I s'ppose the Doll's given you the rundown?" says an old man in a wheelchair. He's dressed like someone out of the 1800s who was on the wrong end of a tailoring accident, his gray hair sticking out of a rumpled top hat and a wan smile on his face. Even under his heavy jacket, you can see strength there, rusted away perhaps but still plain as day.
"As best she could. Not all tha' useful though, ta be honest. You Gehrman?" You've been thinking of it as a house this whole time but, looking around, it's not particularly houselike. The place is like a scatterbrained professor's office, full of books pottery and loose paper strewn haphazardly about the floor. Along one wall sits a massive chest, presumably for storage, and a little dresser with a variety of odd tools atop it. At the room's head stands what can only be called an altar, complete with ornate candles and what you hope for the old man's sake isn't a bloodsoaked rag.
"Aye, I am," he answers, leaning forward on his cane. "And you're the hunter, I presume. Bigger chap than most that pass through here. Has the Dream treated you well so far?"
You stare at him for a moment.
"Okay, I get that yer tryin' ta get me ta ask questions so you can go inta yer 'mysterious old man' routine, but I just finished havin' a fistfight with an immortal arsehole who ripped my fuckin' heart out. If ye've got somethin' to say, spill it."
He laughs at that, shaking his head.
"No appreciation for good storytelling. No respect," he laughs. "You didn't come to us from Yharnam. I can tell. Not sure how you got here, but I suppose it doesn't matter."
"The fuck's a Yharnam? The Doll over there mentioned it, too."
"Oh dear, you really are a long way from home, aren't you?" With that, he grins again.
You glare at him and pop a bayonet out of your sleeve.
"Fine, fine. Yharnam's a city; a fairly important one, all things considered. Most of the hunters that find their way here come from there, as you've probably gathered. I haven't been there myself in some time, so my knowledge isn't quite up-to-date, I'm sorry to say. I do hope the Church is treating the people well."
You perk up at that. Something familiar at last.
"Well, now! I'm somethin' of a churchgoin' man m'self. What sort is it? Catholic? Or maybe it's some nice Protestants I can have m'self a chat with?"
The old man cups his chin, 'hmmm'-ing audibly and looking off into the distance. "Can't say I'm familiar with those terms."
What.
"Y'know, Catholics and Protestants? One spreads the word o' Christ and the other gets stabbed in the fuckin' face fer bein' a buncha heathen pricks!"
Breathe, Anderson. There will be time for stabbing and people to stab later, hopefully. Gehrman politely waits for you to get your heart rate back in the double digits before answering.
"I don't believe Yharnam has a Christ, unfortunately. They worship the blood; at least, the people do."
BREATHE. Yes, they're a bunch of pagan sinners, but can you really call them heathens if they've never even heard the Good Word? Well, you can, of course, but should you?
Ponder existential crisis later. Get answers from old man now.
"So where's 'here,' exactly? Am I dreamin'? Are you? Are we all havin' some kinda freaky superdream?"
"Oh no, hunter, you misunderstand. Dreaming is just how you get here. This place is very real." He taps his cane twice upon the floor, as though convincing you of its solidity.
Huh. Not like that makes any sense, but you'll roll with it.
[] So, what now? How do I get out?
[] What do you mean, they worship blood?
[] So what's your role in all of this? How'd you get here?
[] Write in...
[X] What do you mean, they worship blood?
[X] What do you mean, they worship blood?
Evaunit02mark1
S-s-smell the Prey, S-s-start the Hunt.
[X] What do you mean, they worship blood?
- Location
- Here
[X] What do you mean, they worship blood?
-[X]I don't think you mean the blood that the Son shed for our sins either.
-[X]I don't think you mean the blood that the Son shed for our sins either.
