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

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[X] Find some other way to procrastinate
- [X] If none is found, exit and proceed further
 
[x] Go to the crossing
I don't really think there is anything interesting left in Hemwick.
 
[X] Find some other way to procrastinate on that
-[X] Go show Gehrman the weird metal brand you found.

So on one hand vampires. Otherwise the other hand new shiny doohickies. Besides, if we wait long enough then we may be able to find Alfred! Nothing brings two people closer than wholesale slaughter of godless bloodsuckers.

(Also, as a side note, god please god let Anderson find out that basically every yharnamite is a vampire. I mean they're all drinking blood to get drunk, getting healed by it. That's pretty vampy type behavior if you ask me.)
 
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Ticket to Ride
  • Threadmarks
    • You figure that's about all the fun you'll be able to wring out of this shithole. You turn and head back the way you came, careful not to slip on any loose bitch giblets.

    In proper mysterious fashion, the stagecoach is waiting for you when you step outside. Two massive, emaciated black horses stand in the middle of the crossing, still as death in the twilight. The carriage they haul is wooden, stately, and rather tasteful, bearing on its door what looks like a pair of griffons.

    Then again, you are terrible at recognizing heraldry. You don't think that Romanian ambassador ever forgave you for that "badass chicken" comment.

    The door opens on its own at your approach because of course it does. You stick an arm in, just in case, then climb aboard when nothing impales it or sets it on fire. The down cushions are a delight, luxuriously soft and so comfortable that you're almost tempted to put aside your regicidal rampage. At least until you can poach Annalise's upholsterers.

    The door creaks shut once you're settled and its collection of lanterns jingle as the horses rumble into motion. You sink into the seat and watch the word slip by through the wooden bars of the windows.

    The beasts' gait is steady and powerful, chewing up the rough terrain without issue. Once you get bored of watching trees, you take out a Bible and flip to a random section under the moonlight. There's no better pump-up material for a proper castle-storming than the classic.

    You're so engrossed in Samson's myriad beatdowns that you don't know whether minutes or hours have passed by the time the coach slows to a halt. The door opens, once again on its own, and a biting wind digs into your face as you exit. Snow crunches under your feet and piles itself along your shoulders as you look up at the tremendous structure.

    This is straight-up, O.G. vampire aristocrat chic. A few impaled Turks on the lawn and it'd be just like home.

    The fortress, lit by row upon row of lanterns, outsizes any of Yharnam's buildings several times over. Its tiered towers stretch into the ice-cold frost and the wooden gate before looks like the remains of half a forest. Snow sits heavy on the structure, turning it into a hoary colossus that utterly dominates the horizon.

    You look behind you, wrapping one of your sleeves' backup outfits around your neck as a scarf, and see that the bridge you just crossed is broken in the middle. The horses lie frozen at your feet, by all indications long dead.

    Man, fair play to that overgrown mosquito, she has an incredible flair for the dramatic.

    You trudge up the massive stairway and, right on cue, the gate's mechanisms moan to life and drag it open to reveal a snowed-in plaza. Grass pokes through the white at odd intervals, gnarled trees cling to life, and regal statues stand untouched by time. Men, women, kings, and queens survey their domain, heedless of the snow piling ever higher on their crowned heads. There's even a frozen fountain on the left-hand side of the two-pronged path, midway to a lantern-lit door.

    Were these guys the originators of Yharnam's unstoppable candles or did they just have the same supplier?

    In any case, you flick the nearby Dream lantern and rub some life back into your limbs. You guess you'll have to make your own welcome party.

    [] Go straight to the lit door

    [] Look around first

    [] Write in...
     
  • Threadmarks
    • [x] Go straight to the lit door

    Because fuck those mosquito assholes. I hate those things.
     
    Tricia said:
    You figure that's about all the fun you'll be able to wring out of this shithole. You turn and head back the way you came, careful not to slip on any loose bitch giblets.

    In proper mysterious fashion, the stagecoach is waiting for you when you step outside. Two massive, emaciated black horses stand in the middle of the crossing, still as death in the twilight. The carriage they haul is wooden, stately, and rather tasteful, bearing on its door what looks like a pair of griffons.

    Then again, you are terrible at recognizing heraldry. You don't think that Romanian ambassador ever forgave you for that "badass chicken" comment.

    The door opens on its own at your approach because of course it does. You stick an arm in, just in case, then climb aboard when nothing impales it or sets it on fire. The down cushions are a delight, luxuriously soft and so comfortable that you're almost tempted to put aside your regicidal rampage. At least until you can poach Annalise's upholsterers.

    The door creaks shut once you're settled and its collection of lanterns jingle as the horses rumble into motion. You sink into the seat and watch the word slip by through the wooden bars of the windows.

    The beasts' gait is steady and powerful, chewing up the rough terrain without issue. Once you get bored of watching trees, you take out a Bible and flip to a random section under the moonlight. There's no better pump-up material for a proper castle-storming than the classic.

    You're so engrossed in Samson's myriad beatdowns that you don't know whether minutes or hours have passed by the time the coach slows to a halt. The door opens, once again on its own, and a biting wind digs into your face as you exit. Snow crunches under your feet and piles itself along your shoulders as you look up at the tremendous structure.

    This is straight-up, O.G. vampire aristocrat chic. A few impaled Turks on the lawn and it'd be just like home.

    The     fortress, lit by row upon row of lanterns, outsizes any of Yharnam's buildings several times over. Its tiered towers stretch into the ice-cold frost and the wooden gate before looks like the remains of half a forest. Snow sits heavy on the structure, turning it into a hoary colossus that utterly dominates the horizon.

    You look behind you, wrapping one of your sleeves' backup outfits around your neck as a scarf, and see that the bridge you just crossed is broken in the middle. The horses lie frozen at your feet, by all indications long dead.

    Man, fair play to that overgrown mosquito, she has an incredible flair for the dramatic.

    You trudge up the massive stairway and, right on cue, the gate's mechanisms moan to life and drag it open to reveal a snowed-in plaza. Grass pokes through the white at odd intervals, gnarled trees cling to life, and regal statues stand untouched by time. Men, women, kings, and queens survey their domain, heedless of the snow piling ever higher on their crowned heads. There's even a frozen fountain on the left-hand side of the two-pronged path, midway to a lantern-lit door.

    Were these guys the originators of Yharnam's unstoppable candles or did they just have the same supplier?

    In any case, you flick the nearby Dream lantern and rub some life back into your limbs. You guess you'll have to make your own welcome party.

    [] Go straight to the lit door

    [] Look around first

    [] Write in...
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Invisitext spotted. Unimportant. Forgive the "the"
     
    [x] Begin to grin.

    Wider.

    Wider.

    Add a small chuckle.

    The grin widens.

    The pupils narrow.

    The shoulders begin to shake.

    Look down. The chuckle becomes a full blown laugh.

    Throw your torso back. Raise your hands to the sky, fingers bent like claws. Belt out a laugh devoid of any compassion or forgiveness. A laugh that echoes back off the walls of the castle. Loud enough to be heard all the way across the lake.

    Scream, at the top of your lungs. "Fucking FINALLY! To whomever much is given, of him will much be required; and to whom much was entrusted, of him more will be asked. Beasts and horrors and cultists and witches and all that moral ambiguity bullshit I had to wade through and fucking finally! VAMPIRES! Praise be for the lord has given me vampires to slay!"

    KILL.

    EVERYTHING.
     
    [X] Look around first

    If a job's worth doing (and killing vamps is the worthiest occupation there is), it's worth doing it well. Let's be thorough and make sure everything is really, properly dead by the time we get to the top.
     
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