It's a good thing Yharnam didn't recruit any real big sonsabitches for her squad; even with the flailing that may or may not be death spasms, the Wet Nurse's current meat shield isn't offering much coverage. As it twists and turns in ways that suggest either an atypical or nonexistent skeleton, you pull out an exploding chain and wait for your teammates to get out of the blast radius.
It doesn't take long. Four of the seven still standing leap back out of range and the remainder let loose with massive gouts of fire that leave their target smoldering. Its grip on the stricken swordsman falters and you send the chain skidding along the cobbles.
It's a lot more adept at air hockey than you expected, however, and the previously damaged arm swipes it away, leaving it to detonate harmlessly in the empty space between you. Well, harmlessly to you, at least; the explosion further ravages the meat shield, while his compatriots use the momentary distraction to cut the wounded arm off entirely.
You can almost see the confidence surge among them like electric current. The Wet Nurse shells up more and more, abandoning its opportunistic counters in favor of pure defense. What was careful, in-and-out potshotting from the hooded men becomes a furious push that fills the air with flames and the rasping chime of steel on steel.
As thick fog erupts from the Wet Nurse, however, that newfound confidence becomes a virus. Overextended, out of position in their lust for a quick victory, only one escapes the next flurry unscathed. Two heads roll in opposite directions, followed thereafter by two arms from different owners. The untouched one, this one a torchwielder, drags another compatriot out of the firing line as the latter trails blood from a long flesh wound.
"Rule fuckin' one," you grumble as the creature glares at you, "never get cocky. Unless ye're me, of course." You reach into your sleeves and prepare to trigger the Amygdalan fist, brushing aside an intrusive thought that demands to know how conservation of momentum works when the system in question resides in two separate planes of reality. "Come on, then. I'm gonna fry up those wings and feed 'em to ye in a fuckin' bucket."
Knowing a value meal when it sees it, the thing picks up its fallen blades in its two free hands and lurches forward. For all that blinding swordwork, it's not all that quick. You've had tougher pitches to time in the biannual Iscariot softball game and that's including the Home Run Derby.
Then a rustling to your side gives you just enough time to watch a sickle cleave through the fog, your collarbone, and several of your right ribs. Only your freak reflexes save you from losing that chunk of your torso entirely, and your desperately-triggered fist goes wide. You leap away from what looks like a perfect copy of the Wet Nurse and unleash a storm of nails and pages, only for the clone to dissipate before you can hit it.
You hit the ground stumbling, the creature's hood following your movements as though the fog wasn't there. It looks wholly unperturbed by its two stumps or its fresh set of burns as it watches you press the two halves of your shoulder back together.
"You kiddin' me?" you hiss. "This ain't even the most hurt I've been in the last two hours. The last bastard I fought was five minutes old and still managed ta kick my arse harder than you." When it still refuses to respond, you grit your teeth. "Two o' you, five o' you, ten o' you, doesn't fuckin' matter. I've got the LORD behind me."
The mighty wings thrum and the fog blooms around it as it bears down on you. Man, life would have been so much easier for Mama Anderson if she'd had a babysitter this dedicated.
[] Write in...
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CURRENT STATUSES:
Anderson: Right shoulder hanging on by a thread
The squad: Three dead, two missing arms, one moderate cut to the chest
The Wet Nurse: Two arms severed
