Back in the Saddle Again
Your brilliant gambit thus thwarted, you turn on your heels towards the Workshop.
"Gonna go drop off the loot inside; got some plans ta run by ye if ye're interested."
"With you? How couldn't I be?" He wheels himself along in your wake, literally hauling ass at an impressive clip. Once at his workbench, he performs the rubbing-of-hands ritual endemic to excited craftsmen as you fish around your sleeves for the massive chunks of Amygdala you gathered. You plop them down in front of him with a teeth-rattling thump that, to your chagrin, knocks a few of his meticulously-organized weapons out of place.
"My bad."
"Eh, I'm grateful for any excuse to tidy up. It passes the time. So," he says with a clap, "what were you thinking?"
"Few things. First off, some combat-worthy prostheses for Steffon and Alexandria, the woman who lost a hand. They're about yea high and pretty ripped."
"That's not very specific."
"I could either bring ye their measurements or ye could be a bit generous with the size and let the doctors in the Chapel work on the fit, yer choice."
"There's plenty of material here and some left over from the first one you killed; I could give you prototypes and adjust them after they've tried them on."
"Shame they can't follow me here."
"Yes," he replies. "Yes, it is. What else is on the table?"
"Oh, ye're gonna love this one. See, I've had me a bout o' divine inspiration. Amygdala managed ta knock my arse through some buildings, and while my head was knittin' itself back together, all I could think of was how I'd love ta share that experience with others. So, my idea was that ye could spring load these beauties so I could launch 'em from my sleeves and smack heathens inta next week. I'll even lend ye some crosses ta make proper knuckle dusters out of."
He leans back and ponders, miming out inscrutable operations as he does. "So long as you take care of the requisite spatial bullshit, it seems like a decent plan. I could probably braid the muscle fibers together into a high-tension spring. The recoil would be tremendous and cocking the things would be a pain in the ass, but I can make it work." He picks up a mostly-intact arm and twirls a knife in his other hand in decidedly unsafe fashion.
"Knew I could count on ye," you say as you dump a load of crosses onto an unoccupied portion of his workbench.
"You learn quickly. Go on back and leave me to it."
A quick and stealthy journey to the necessary grave later and you're back on the ground floor, surrounded by the injured and heavily medicated. Simon's still where you last saw him, looking over the unconscious Djura, and you stroll over to him.
"I'm headin' back ta the Nightmare, if ye'd care ta join me."
"Might as well," he replies. "The only good I could do here is hold Djura down when he wakes up and decides to do something stupid."
"I'm sure Iosefka's got the good drugs ta take care o' that."
"True."
The two of you make your way to the roof and towards Ebrietas, who remains ensconced in her crater. You retrieve the fucked-up eye from your stash and present it to her.
"I know I told ye ta rest, but would ye mind sendin' us back ta the Nightmare? Still got some business there."
Mmgghphf, she grumbles.
"Thanks."
Conveniently, she deposits you in Ludwig's little butcher house, much to the detriment of your just-cleaned boots. Simon has the right idea; his clothes are such a fucking wreck that a bit of extra blood does nothing to his overall aesthetic.
"Onward?" you say.
"Onward."
A rhythmic thumping scores your entrance into the next hall, one which you recognize from much experience with frustrated recruits as the classic thumping of head on wall. The hallway is lined with cell doors, the sole free occupants a tall man and wheelchair gunner that you dispose of from long distance.
The nearest cell houses the source of the sound: a mid-sized man in Eastern-style garb fighting a losing battle with one of the walls. There's quite a bit of blood running from the head-shaped dent he's steadily deepening. As he whacks away, he intones an odd mantra.
"Shrouded by night, but with steady stride. Colored by blood, but always clear of mind.
Proud hunter of the church.
Beasts are a curse, and a curse is a shackle.
Only ye are the true blades of the church."
It is not, sadly, in time with his wall-whacking. This peeves you.
"Old Hunter Yamamura, if I'm not mistaken," says Simon. "Almost a legend. Unexplained disappearance, just like so many others."
"Should we help him?" you ask.
"Might as well try, at least."
You boot the door open, enjoying the metallic clank of the lock exploding. Yamamura does not respond, no matter how many times you poke him or wave a hand in front of his face in as aggravating a fashion as you can manage.
"I mean, he's made some solid progress through the wall," you say. "Wouldn't wanna throw off his groove."
"I suppose."
You step back into the hall, still pondering whether or not his screed is supposed to rhyme. You choose to assume it's not; otherwise, he rhymed "church" with "church" and that's a beating-worthy offense.
A man with a massive pick attempt to ambush you midway through the hall, earning an arrow through the face from your traveling companion for his trouble. As you pull it free and toss it back to Simon, helpfully shouting "catch" as it flies, you hear a chuckle from a nearby side passage.
"New blood, eh? Tell me, do you hear the toll of the bell?"
[] Answer
-[] Yes
-[] No
-[] What's it to you?
[] Go check it out
[] Just keep walking
[] Write in...
"Gonna go drop off the loot inside; got some plans ta run by ye if ye're interested."
"With you? How couldn't I be?" He wheels himself along in your wake, literally hauling ass at an impressive clip. Once at his workbench, he performs the rubbing-of-hands ritual endemic to excited craftsmen as you fish around your sleeves for the massive chunks of Amygdala you gathered. You plop them down in front of him with a teeth-rattling thump that, to your chagrin, knocks a few of his meticulously-organized weapons out of place.
"My bad."
"Eh, I'm grateful for any excuse to tidy up. It passes the time. So," he says with a clap, "what were you thinking?"
"Few things. First off, some combat-worthy prostheses for Steffon and Alexandria, the woman who lost a hand. They're about yea high and pretty ripped."
"That's not very specific."
"I could either bring ye their measurements or ye could be a bit generous with the size and let the doctors in the Chapel work on the fit, yer choice."
"There's plenty of material here and some left over from the first one you killed; I could give you prototypes and adjust them after they've tried them on."
"Shame they can't follow me here."
"Yes," he replies. "Yes, it is. What else is on the table?"
"Oh, ye're gonna love this one. See, I've had me a bout o' divine inspiration. Amygdala managed ta knock my arse through some buildings, and while my head was knittin' itself back together, all I could think of was how I'd love ta share that experience with others. So, my idea was that ye could spring load these beauties so I could launch 'em from my sleeves and smack heathens inta next week. I'll even lend ye some crosses ta make proper knuckle dusters out of."
He leans back and ponders, miming out inscrutable operations as he does. "So long as you take care of the requisite spatial bullshit, it seems like a decent plan. I could probably braid the muscle fibers together into a high-tension spring. The recoil would be tremendous and cocking the things would be a pain in the ass, but I can make it work." He picks up a mostly-intact arm and twirls a knife in his other hand in decidedly unsafe fashion.
"Knew I could count on ye," you say as you dump a load of crosses onto an unoccupied portion of his workbench.
"You learn quickly. Go on back and leave me to it."
A quick and stealthy journey to the necessary grave later and you're back on the ground floor, surrounded by the injured and heavily medicated. Simon's still where you last saw him, looking over the unconscious Djura, and you stroll over to him.
"I'm headin' back ta the Nightmare, if ye'd care ta join me."
"Might as well," he replies. "The only good I could do here is hold Djura down when he wakes up and decides to do something stupid."
"I'm sure Iosefka's got the good drugs ta take care o' that."
"True."
The two of you make your way to the roof and towards Ebrietas, who remains ensconced in her crater. You retrieve the fucked-up eye from your stash and present it to her.
"I know I told ye ta rest, but would ye mind sendin' us back ta the Nightmare? Still got some business there."
Mmgghphf, she grumbles.
"Thanks."
Conveniently, she deposits you in Ludwig's little butcher house, much to the detriment of your just-cleaned boots. Simon has the right idea; his clothes are such a fucking wreck that a bit of extra blood does nothing to his overall aesthetic.
"Onward?" you say.
"Onward."
A rhythmic thumping scores your entrance into the next hall, one which you recognize from much experience with frustrated recruits as the classic thumping of head on wall. The hallway is lined with cell doors, the sole free occupants a tall man and wheelchair gunner that you dispose of from long distance.
The nearest cell houses the source of the sound: a mid-sized man in Eastern-style garb fighting a losing battle with one of the walls. There's quite a bit of blood running from the head-shaped dent he's steadily deepening. As he whacks away, he intones an odd mantra.
"Shrouded by night, but with steady stride. Colored by blood, but always clear of mind.
Proud hunter of the church.
Beasts are a curse, and a curse is a shackle.
Only ye are the true blades of the church."
It is not, sadly, in time with his wall-whacking. This peeves you.
"Old Hunter Yamamura, if I'm not mistaken," says Simon. "Almost a legend. Unexplained disappearance, just like so many others."
"Should we help him?" you ask.
"Might as well try, at least."
You boot the door open, enjoying the metallic clank of the lock exploding. Yamamura does not respond, no matter how many times you poke him or wave a hand in front of his face in as aggravating a fashion as you can manage.
"I mean, he's made some solid progress through the wall," you say. "Wouldn't wanna throw off his groove."
"I suppose."
You step back into the hall, still pondering whether or not his screed is supposed to rhyme. You choose to assume it's not; otherwise, he rhymed "church" with "church" and that's a beating-worthy offense.
A man with a massive pick attempt to ambush you midway through the hall, earning an arrow through the face from your traveling companion for his trouble. As you pull it free and toss it back to Simon, helpfully shouting "catch" as it flies, you hear a chuckle from a nearby side passage.
"New blood, eh? Tell me, do you hear the toll of the bell?"
[] Answer
-[] Yes
-[] No
-[] What's it to you?
[] Go check it out
[] Just keep walking
[] Write in...
How could I forget.
