The Doll watches you patiently as you puzzle through her statement. Whether she's alive or not, she's been nothing but kind to you. She deserves an identity of her own. Everyone does.
"I'm going to wake up now. While I'm gone, think of a name ye'd like. If ye can't think of one, I'll give ye one meself."
"If that is what you wish, good Hunter."
You kneel before the occupied grave and once more find yourself in the endless black, the Lamps rising from the abyss like stunted trees. This time, three of them light your way and, as you approach, images of the sickroom, Gilbert's window, and the butcher block you made the bridge into come to life in your mind.
There's still some exploring to do in the city, but you've got a healthy collection of blood vials to drop off and it might be worth checking to see how your wards are holding up. Plus, Dr. Iosefka's a less ontologically-challenging conversation partner than your most recent one.
The smell of alcohol is thicker than when you first arrived. A quick glance towards the front door reveals an impressively thorough cleaning job. A casual observer would never believe that an old man had been mauled to death by a ravenous beast that was, itself, subsequently shanked and nutted to death that very same evening.
The general clutter has also been reduced; seems the Doctor took the opportunity to tidy up while she was downstairs. It finally looks almost like a safe place of healing.
Resolving to compliment her on her one-woman war on grime, you make your way up the stairs towards the thick-ass door separating her from the nightmares of Yharnam.
Should you have set up a secret knock? You probably should have set up a secret knock.
Lacking that method of identity verification, you simply rap politely on the door and call out for her.
"Doctor Iosefka? It's me, Father Anderson. Got those blood vials ye wanted. Hope ye don't mind a bit o' blood on the outsides."
Footsteps, hesitant at first, ring out from somewhere beyond the door before coming to rest nearby,
"Oh, hello again, Father. How did your journey go?"
You have to strain to hear her voice. Seems like she's keeping a bit of distance between her and the door. Probably for the best; staying safe in case you're actually some kind of beast wearing an Anderson suit.
"No offense, Doctor, but yer neighbours are fuckin' arseholes. Had me some strongly-worded disagreements with them before they'd part with their vials."
"I see. Did you happen to find any survivors among them? Or just madmen and beasts?"
"There were a few; none that were in any mood ta chat, though. 'Cept Gilbert. Nice chap. "
"Did you tell him about the clinic?"
"He wasn't interested."
"A shame. There is no safer place in Yharnam on such a night. If you do happen to find someone willing to listen, do be sure to tell them of it."
"If I find one, sure."
There's a pause. You clear your throat out of a sense of decorum. Section XIII may have made sure you were on a different continent during any and all formal meetings but you know manners, dammit. You just choose not to use them sometimes.
"D'ye want the blood vials, Doc?"
"Hm? Yes, yes. Leave them downstairs by the bookshelves and I will gather them once you leave."
"I could just hand them to ye, ye know."
"True, but one can't afford to be too careful on a night of the hunt. I don't mean to imply that you are not trustworthy, Father. I hope you understand."
It makes sense, sure. If it's what makes her comfortable.
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