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

[Tricia]

As tempting as it is to wade back in and beat the motherfucker with your stump until he says he's sorry, shenanigans like that are best attempted when you aren't getting your ass handed to you by a freeze-dried beanpole with irrationally large harvesting equipment. Come Hell or high water, you're getting that hand back.

Maria re-enters the fray, ever-so-slightly wobbled by the earlier blow, and bursts forward with another flurry. Logarius keeps her at range with his massive scythe and you watch, enraptured, as Maria bobs and weaves with serpent fluidity to try and slip past the prowling blade. As the dance continues, you lash out with a bayonet flurry and dive forward, hand in sight. The scythe disengages to intercept the blades and Maria charges into sword range, scraping her off-hand weapon across its haft to keep it at bay.

Her attack is beautifully timed. So, you have to admit, is Logarius' return fire.

His sword parries her thrust and the scythe terminates its intercept course halfway into your left femur. Several of your favorite arteries begin evacuation procedures as you yank it free and roll away, fumbling with your newly-reclaimed hand. As best as you can tell between the spurting blood and your de-amputation efforts, Logarius took Maria's shorter blade to the midsection without issue. He brings the scythe back around, drawing her attention, and launches her back with the same front kick he hit you with.

Once again, he maintains his position against the wall as Maria circles and you hobble back to your feet. You've got just enough feeling in your right hand to grab your club and twist it like this, aiming down the sights at the sword that's been giving the two of you so many issues. For the first time, the big man seems to hesitate, caught between defending and winding up for another sweep of skulls. He's slow to react when you drag the beam across his left arm, although the resulting explosion wakes him right the fuck back up.

Logarius howls in pain as his blackened sword skitters away, turgid blood oozing from the ugly wound you left behind. Maria pounces and, without his other weapon or his composure, Logarius is in no position to respond. She tears into him in a torrent of blows that you strain yourself to follow. You can't really contribute with ranged support for fear of hitting her, but she doesn't even need it. Robes in tatters and supporting wall cracking beneath the onslaught, he slumps forward.

Then the displaced sword explodes.

The familiar smoke it disgorges coalesces into a rain of blades that Maria deftly avoids. She does not, however, avoid the massive scythe swing that crunches into her chest and nearly sends her hurtling off the roof. You follow her flight with your gaze, watching as she stabs her sword into the tiles to arrest her motion, and turn back just in time to see Logarius bearing down on you like a freight train carrying other, equally-intimidating freight trains. While your club stands up to the overhead blow, the wrist you'd just finished putting back together splinters beneath it.

He looms over you, forcing his enormous leverage onto your damaged leg , and swats you across the face with his limp left hand hard enough to crack a tooth. Your grip falters just long enough for him to wind up and send you flying with a horizontal bash that's more tennis swing than elegant swipe.

You pull yourself out of the wall, spitting out a few globs of blood, and stare down the renewed Logarius. His smoke is pouring off his body and you can hear the tiles crack beneath his footsteps as he walks over to his sword. When his left hand proves too damaged to pick it up, he rams his staff into the rooftop, picks up the sword with his now-free right, and shoves the blade through his palm up to the spiked guard. It scrapes along the ground as he marches forward, adding a fresh coat to the trail of blood he's been leaving behind.

Said blood is, for some reason, making a slow surge towards Maria's kneeling form. The other scattered puddles follow its lead as you pull yourself as tall as you can, slamming your wounded hand into your chest in a show of defiance.

"Nice special effects, ye beef jerky-lookin' sack o' shit. I'm gonna hang ye off the Chapel roof and use ye as a fuckin' smoke machine."

He responds by swinging his sword in an ungainly arc that nonetheless comes within inches of cutting your throat. It is, you have to admit, a fairly effective retort, though its thunder gets stolen somewhat by the explosion of blood behind you. The both of you turn to see Maria, bent nearly double by her wounds, storming forward with flame in her wake.

You'll have to ask her to teach you that.

[] Write in...

--

CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Damaged right hand, chest, and left leg.

Maria: Near-broken jaw. Severe blunt force trauma and stab wound around sternum.

Logarius: Stab wounds on chest, extreme damage to midsection, nonfunctional left arm.

 

[Tricia]

You can't let Maria show you up in front of Logarius even if the fucker's a few seconds away from being too dead to judge you. As her halting steps carry her back towards the pocket, pages and nails erupt from your sleeves, repelling the wind and snow in their vicious maelstrom. Maria's blades flare to life and she slams them into the waiting scythe with your ward-to-be swirling about her.

Your ward is one of your greatest tools. It is also, when not yet active, extremely flammable. The scythe slips past the nails and Maria's wild swings incinerate most of the pages, adding a fresh coat of ash to the crowded brawl. The flames roar brilliantly as they eat into the frostbitten shaft and singe Logarius' robes, but they're not enough to turn the tide; Maria's slowed dramatically from her earlier efforts and her once-pristine combinations have devolved into desperate flurries. Logarius' newfound strength repels her charge, batting aside her cuts with parries that nearly take her off her feet. The sword in his dead left hand scores Maria's garb with blows that are becoming less and less glancing as the exchange continues.

When artistry and fancy superpowers fail, raw brutality is there to pick up the slack. You fill both your hands with bayonets and shove one between your teeth. Though it pains you dearly to cripple your quip-making like this, every little bit of pointy object helps.

"MMMFFFMFMF," you bellow righteously as you crouch down and barrel into the fray. Maria redoubles her attack and Logarius lashes out with another push kick, seemingly intent on launching her away to maintain the pattern of successive one-on-ones. She doubles over as foot meets gaping chest wound, but somehow manages to hold her ground send another tongue of flame across his face. You're on him by the time he finally manages to knock her back. Your blades tear into the gouges Maria left behind and force the man to adjust his grip as he gives ground. You even manage to get a few dings in with the one in your mouth as you headbang away.

Just as he seems to be faltering, however, he thumps you with the same upward swing that took Maria out of commission earlier and follows it up with a crunching blow to your injured leg. You nearly bite through the bayonet as your head rings and he turns his attention back to Maria, who's slow to regain her footing.

Judging by the look on his face when you stab him through the thigh, he really wasn't expecting you to still be ready to rumble after that.

The big man's been drinking his milk, apparently; you manage to pull yourself back to your feet using his impaled femur as leverage and then bury your second blade in his shoulder when he tries to round on you. You savor his second moment of panic and yank his head down to eye level before ramming your third blade into his jugular. His reach finally working against him, he drops the scythe and wraps his fingers around your neck. With their thinness and his strength, it might as well be five garrotes doing a number on your arteries.

You're forced to open your mouth and wheeze, blood vessels bursting under the pressure. The blood that's already in your brain files for overtime pay and the impending blackout passive-aggressively taps on your shoulder as you squirm. You grab onto the blade in his neck and rattle it around as best you can, getting precious inches of penetration as his grip remains steadfast and stale blood drips down his robe. The scrape of metal on bone alerts you that you've reached his spine and he slackens enough for you to pull two more blades out and go to town on his vertebrae.

What was once a tactical battle befitting of honorable warriors has devolved into you trying to chop his head off before he can finish strangling you. Whatever lingering instincts kept his fighting prowess intact probably didn't anticipate this sort of situation.

A furious stab finally takes his legs out from under him and he crumples on top of you, mouth bobbing wordlessly. A few more gouges and his crowned head rolls free, soon tangled in its own hair as it drifts down the tiles.

PREY SLAUGHTERED
​

With some undignified grunts, you shove your way out from underneath him and help Maria to her feet. She staggers forward, rears back, and hammers his limp body with a swing that immediately sets it ablaze. His flesh bone-dry and paper-thin, Logarius burns beautifully, a welcome-yet-morbid relief from the chill. You pull the crown off his head before tossing the latter into the flames with the rest.

For a few minutes, you just sit with Maria, watching the old master fall to pieces in the fire.

"That was fun," she says. "I'd forgotten what a real fight felt like. Thank you."

"Aye, that was somethin'. We should do this more often."

"Perhaps later." She leans back and breathes out. "I wish to rest, Father Anderson."

"Fair enough. See ye in the Nightmare."

She nods and allows herself to fall. Her shining form vanishes as it's swallowed by the snow, leaving behind only a Maria-angel that's gone in seconds.

The bonfire soon sputters out, fuel spent. You toss the crown up and down a few times, looking around for where the throne room would be. Maybe you need to get into the right mindset; if you were an ancient vampire aristocrat, where would you put the door?

Well, personally, you'd smite yourself and purge your sinful presence from the earth, but you can fudge it a bit.

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

Neither the lingering adrenaline nor the soothing warmth of a job well-done are enough to turn aside the biting cold. You flick the newly-risen lantern to life and consider your options, tossing the crown back and forth. Perhaps you could use a thinking cap.

God may be the king of kings, but you are the king of handing giant heathens their well-preserved asses. You ponder Maria's position in this hypothetical monarchy as you don the crown, which fits rather better than you expected considering the relative sizes of your and Logarius' heads. Its presence adds a certain gravitas to your pondering and a certain ponderous gravity to your head, wobbling unsteadily in the heavy wind and giving the cold a very convenient route into your scalp.

You're swiftly interrupted by a brutal gale that cripples your visibility and sends your coat a-ruffling. You shield your glasses from the onslaught, curling up to minimize your profile until the wind contains the calamity that is its mammaries. When you manage to look up, shit has once again gotten spooky.

Where once stood a small stone structure, cracked and battered from having a huge dead guy repeatedly slammed into it, now stands a sizable tower. You carefully step through the now-visible doorway, sticking a hand in front of you to avoid getting Wile-E.-Coyote'd, and find a massive staircase flanked by around a dozen stone horsemen. None of them make any more to interrupt your ascent, thankfully, although you do punch one of them to set an example for the others. Another doorway sits at the peak, leading into a room that would be ornate and lovely were it not utterly choked with those goddamn statues.

"Father Anderson," a woman's voice says. "You certainly took your time."

You quirk an eyebrow and follow the walkway to find a beautifully-dressed woman in an iron mask, seated on a throne with an empty copy at its side. Her crossed arms adequately demonstrate her opinion of your dilly-dallying.

"We would normally demand that you kneel, but We recognize that that would be a losing effort. I am Annalise, Queen of Castle Cainhurst, ruler of the Vilebloods, and sworn enemy of the Church. We wish to parley."

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You cross your arms. "I'm willin' ta hear ye out, but first: tell me yer opinion o' this damned place's architect."

She takes a moment to process this, faint remnants of the outside wind the only sound, before huffing out a laugh. It somehow manages to sound regal despite the inch or two of solid iron between her mouth and the rest of the world.

"An utter fool whom We, to Our eternal shame, paid in advance. The Church tells tales of the wicked Vilebloods and their fell deeds, but Our greatest sin was giving that oaf a legacy."

"Sounds about right," you say with a nod. "Alright, lemme hear yer spiel."

"We have been watching thee, Father Anderson. Though We are bound by this mask, We see and hear through Our subjects." She beckons and a rustling from behind alerts you to a gargoyle waddling into the room, gaze fixed on the Queen. "Thou hast upset the status quo in unheard-of fashion."

"Some o' my best work, if I do say so m'self."

"We recognize thy strength and the zeal. Left to thine own devices, We've little doubt thou would have eventually found and ravaged Us. We sent the invitation to ensure a meeting on Our own terms."

"And ta get me ta whack the big bastard keepin' watch?"

You can hear the smirk. "A favorable side effect, to be sure."

You cross your arms even harder. "So ye got yer meetin' and yer lawn maintenance. What next?"

"A bargain. We pose no threat to thee; Our forces are shattered, Our own might crippled by Logarius' judgement. We offer thee Cainhurst's resources in thine quest in return for leniency."

"And what's ta keep me from just takin' those resources? Can't see ye stoppin' me from that chair."

The humble veneer, which she's been working brilliantly to maintain, cracks a bit. "Cainhurst's archives span the ages. Thou art many things, Father Anderson, but patient though art not. Dost thou truly wish to waste weeks, months, years trawling through the libraries for the faintest hint of relevant information? I am the only one on this earth who knows the intricacies of the castle's knowledge." She leans forward, drooping slightly from the weight atop her neck. "Thou slew Logarius, who single-handedly tore through Our mightiest knights and handed Us Our first and only defeat. Thought it pains Us to say it, We are at thy mercy. Spare Us and, in whatever monolith thou raiseth from the Church's ashes, scour its lies from the histories. Allow Cainhurst to begin anew; it costs thee nothing and grants thee an incomparable boon."

You put a hand on your chin, surreptitiously nudging one of the more garish statues into an imbalanced position. She's not wrong about your tolerance for prolonged studying, at least, although you suppose you could foist it on the Churchmen. Some of the ones on the mend would probably like something to do, anyway. That said...

"If ye're so keen on gettin' on my good side, why'd yer goons try so hard ta kill me?"

She very nearly snorts, what you assume to be queenly instincts heading the outburst off at the pass. "Our subjects are ghosts and revenants, driven only by their desire to protect the castle. We could no more stand them down as convince the snow to return to the clouds. Cainhurst is shackled to the past, Father Anderson. I beseech thee break those shackles."

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You produce a bayonet and toss it up and down as you process her words, less as a power move and more to give yourself something to do with your hands. It's definitely a solid pitch, as is to be expected from someone with decades to plan it out, and that little bit at the end has the showman in you nodding appreciatively. That said, she's clearly not giving you the whole story and like fuck you'll take the time to read everything downstairs. Being judge, jury, and executioner is always fun, but sometimes it's better to leave the first two to a higher authority.

"Ye paint a pretty picture, but ultimately, I'm not the one who'll decide your fate."

"Oh?" she says. "And who is?"

"The Man Upstairs." You replace the bayonet with a cross and toss it at her underhand. "Catch."

The cross bounces off her helmet with a ting and slips neatly through her hands on its way to the floor.

"Nice reflexes, Yer Highness."

"We can barely see in this thing," she snaps.

"Fine, fine," you say as you walk over and pick the thing back up. "Okay, count o' three this time. Gonna put it right in yer lap, so be ready."

"Very well," she grits out, cupping her hands at the indicated spot.

"Alright then. One, two, two-and-a-half-"

"Get on with it."

"Three."

You lob it directly into her hands, which immediately crackle and belch smoke. She gives an incredibly un-queenly yelp and flings it away, flapping her stricken palms in the still air as your grin grows ever wider.

"That was the test, Annalise. Looks like ye failed."

"You're making a mistake," she hisses.

"No," you reply, scraping your bayonets together and raising them in your favorite pose, "I don't think I am."

"You can't even scratch the surface of Cainhurst's knowledge without my help. I know more of this wretched world than any ten of your 'disciples' put together."

"Maybe, maybe not. Don't make a damn bit o' difference." You let fly and pin her to her seat, blood as viscous as Logarius's oozing out of the wounds. She tries desperately to stagger to her feet, but neither her arms nor her legs can support the weight.

"How blessed is anyone who rejects the advice o' the wicked and does not take a stand in the path that sinners tread, nor a seat in company with cynics, but who delights in the law of Yahweh and murmurs His law day and night." You stalk slowly forward, footfalls echoing to and fro among the observing statues. "Such a one is like a tree planted near streams; it bears fruit in season and its leaves never wither and every project succeeds."

She struggles to remove the offending bayonets, only for you to add four more to the bargain. The throne buckles and rumbles with her thrashings.

"How different the wicked, how different! Just like chaff blown around by the wind, the wicked will not stand firm at the Judgement nor sinners in the gatherin' o' the upright. For Yahweh watches over the path of the upright, but the path o' the wicked is doomed."

"Stop!"

"AMEN!"

You strike her head from her neck with a single blow. Her body slumps as the ironclad noggin fights the ground and wins, leaving a medium-sized crater and a lingering crunch. You nearly tip over on your first attempt to lift it; Logarius's Cone of Shame suddenly makes a lot more sense.

"Are you quite done?" the head suddenly huffs. You're sufficiently used to vampire bullshit that you don't start, but you do take a few moments to hold it over your head and look for where the air is coming from.

"I don't suppose ye could tell me Steps Two through Ten?"

[] Take her with you
-[] Where?

[] Try to kill her harder
-[] How?

[] Ask her about things
-[] What?

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"Steps what?"

"Ah, nothin'," you say, rolling her head around in your hands for the sake of being annoying. "Just some nostalgia. Now, what am I ta do with ye?"

"You could start by re-attaching Our head and leaving. We present no threat and you can't get anything of value out of Cainhurst without the help we are, for obvious reasons, no longer willing to provide without compensation. You gain nothing from leaving Us like this."

"I get some entertainment," you reply. You start to juggle her, but your wrists immediately veto the idea. "It's not like I got any out o' that fight. Ye're a real disappointin' vampire, ye know that? Freaky disembodied talkin' head thing aside, o' course; even the Crimson Fucker didn't manage ta pull that one off."

"Oh, We're sorry," she says, sarcasm flowing unabated through the iron shell, "would you have preferred We politely ask Logarius not to screw half a tonne of metal to Our skull?"

You shrug. "Would it've helped? I mean, I didn't know the guy save for our little disagreement outside and, between you and me, I don't think 'e was quite in his proper state o' mind."

She's silent for a moment. When she speaks, it's with a voice somewhere between stages four and five of grief. "You are a uniquely irritating individual, Father Anderson."

"So I've been told. Alright, in ye go."

"Wait wha-"

You pull your sleeves back up and march outside. Man, if you can talk and/or bribe Simon into giving you your bust privileges back, you could do some real damage with Little Miss Chrome-Dome here.

With a flutter of paper, you leave Cainhurst and its sins against both God and architecture behind. You ride the heavy winds along the coastline and, with only a few run-ins with hungry bass, touch down among Byrgenwerth's partially-reclaimed tiles. Simon, feet dangling over the water, waves you over.

"How did it go?" he says, offering you a pear from the supplies you brought them. "Did she give you a medal?"

"By certain definition o' 'give' and 'medal', yeah." You drop the pear in your sleeves, reach in, and produce the head.

"-impertinent blasphemous ignorant whoreson-"

You dump her back in and replace her with the pear before she can get a real head of steam going. Simon looks at you oddly as you wipe it on your coat and take a bite. Not bad for something grown in the middle of a horrific burning nightmare hole.

"What?"

"What was that?" he asks.

"Severed head o' Cainhurst's Queen. Still figurin' out what ta do with her." When his expression doesn't change, you wave a hand. "Don't worry, she's evil."

"What, objectively?"

"Yep!"

"Oooookay then. Look, we're going to have to deal with that at some point, but for now, the women said they only had a couple more tests to do."

"Aight. I'll give ye the scoop while we wait."

You only manage a small scoop rather than a proper waffle-cone-filler, as it's not long before Ebrietas swoops in from somewhere around the lake's center with Yurie in tow.

Hello, Father Anderson! How was Cainhurst?

"Enlightenin'. More importantly, what's the verdict? Ye manage ta get in touch with Rom?"

Ebrietas droops a little.

No. I think Yurie can explain it better.

"My hypothesis was correct," says the woman in question. "Rom is entirely devoid of rational thought and entirely impossible to circumvent. Ebrietas and I tried every frequency, every cipher, everything that could possibly be used to convey a message. No response." She sighs. "If you want to get past her, you're going to have to kill her."

[] Keep talking
-[] About?

[] Go after Rom

[] Go somewhere else

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"So what would happen if I killed 'er?" you say. "Would the entire realm suddenly go mad? Would it rain showers o' gold? Would it solve the issue o' the talkin' head in my sleeve?"

Yurie simply stares at you for a while. Producing the aforementioned head, which picks up its earlier string of invective without a hitch, does little to kick-start a response. Finally, as Annalise starts busing out words that have you scrambling for the old English dictionary you have stashed somewhere, the scholar speaks.

"There is a lot to unpack here, so let's start with the pressing issue of why you have a severed and extremely angry head in your sleeves."

"I am Annalise, Queen of Cainhurst," she practically screams. "Take Us away from this lunatic before he puts Us back into that nightmare."

Yurie hesitantly extends her hands. With a shrug, you carefully pass over your burden.

"She's a wee bit heftier than she looks, so be careful," you say. Even with your warning, Yurie nearly buckles, ultimately electing to just put her down on the floor.

"The LORD judged 'er and found 'er wantin'," you say when Yurie finishes standing Annalise up on her neck stump. "She won't die properly, so I figured I'd take 'er with me and figure it out later."

"You threw a piece of metal at Us. When it burned Us, you decided to kill Us. In what world does that make sense?" she huffs.

"Instead o' complainin', maybe ye should've tried not bein' a blasphemous vampire heathen."

"You haven't even explained what 'vampire' means you overgrown offal trough."

Can you please stop arguing? says Ebrietas, eyes locked on the ironclad monarch. I'm sure Father Anderson had a good reason to do what he did.

"Look," Yurie interjects, "we can deal with this later. Queen Annalise, I am going to ask you some questions after the current situation is dealt with. I assure you that I will not let Anderson put you in his sleeves again. Is there anything I can do for you while you wait?"

"Just take Us away from him," she sighs. "That is all We ask."

Yurie obligingly carries her away, huffing and grunting with the effort. After putting her down on a table, which groans in protest, she walks back to you and sits down.

"Putting that very temporarily aside, let's return to the topic of Rom. When you first asked, I told you that killing her would result in madness."

"What sort o' madness? 'Excitable Boy' madness or 'Our House' madness?"

"Let me start from the beginning," she says without missing a beat. "Yharnam is, to various degrees, influenced by various dreamscapes, such as the Hunter's Dream. The dreamscape Rom guards is simultaneously the most alien and most influential; it operates under laws that are more perpendicular than parallel to our own. I have reason to believe it is the source of several of Yharnam's odder properties, including bloodtinge magic and, perhaps, the Scourge itself. Rom serves as a mostly-effective limiter, stopping the majority of its bleedthrough while simultaneously limiting all traffic the other way."

Her gaze bulls its way through her blindfold. "Leave Rom alive and the status quo remains. Kill Rom and you have a chance to make a better one, assuming you can keep everyone alive in the process."

You lean your head into your hand. "How exactly am I supposed ta kill an entire plane of existence?"

"And what are the consequences, aside from the Scourge, if we leave Rom be for the time being?" Simon chimes in.

"Good questions. For the former, Ebrietas and I made some solid progress; based on my research of Rom, descriptions of the Hunters' Dream, and Ebrietas' examination of the lantern you all found on your way here, we theorize that dreamscapes require a dreamer to serve as a host. Eliminate the dreamer and the dream fades."

I think the body we found in Yahar'gul was a host, says Ebrietas.

"He was deader than Queenie's chances o' winnin' a thumb war. How's he still dreaming?"

"That's the interesting part," Yurie replies. There's a tinge of excitement in her voice, reminding you of when you sat down to hear about the orphans' latest adventures. "In all likelihood, each dreamscape is tied to its dreamer's consciousness instead of their physical body. Assuming that's the case, then, based on your descriptions of Gehrman and the aforementioned dead man, said consciousness likely resides within the dream itself. The hosts maintain not only each dream's existence but their own."

You nod. "So I go inta the fuckin' Hell dimension, kill the person dreamin' it up, and then everythin's hunky-dory?"

"In so many words, yes. Now, Simon, your question is every bit as important. Anderson, how long ago did Old Yharnam burn?"

You shrug. "Not sure. Even the Kegs don't know the specifics."

"But it was long enough for the Church to erect an entirely new city on top of the ruins."

"Well, I assume they had the Giants helpin' 'em," you offer.

"The Powder Kegs are still alive. The beasts within are still alive without any food source besides each other." She leans forward. "Do you know how long you've been here? In this world?"

"A few hours, I'd say."

"Ebrietas can keep perfect time in her head. It should be morning, Anderson. It should have been morning hours ago. Time isn't functioning properly."

She rises and walks towards the door. "Do you know why all this talk of dreams is important?"

She opens the door and the moon shines through, terrible and grand. "We're in one."

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

You let her statement linger for a few moments so as not to interrupt any dramatic lightning crashes or other ominous punctuation. When it becomes clear that the local weather systems have no gift for drama, you follow Yurie inside and plop down onto one of the nicer chairs, avoiding the spear still embedded in it from the bust incident.

"That explains a lot, actually," you say. "And here I thought Heinkel was bein' paranoid when she insisted that watchin' Inception would come in handy for fieldwork someday."

Silence. You look around at their impassive faces, although Ebrietas's is kind of impassive by default. "No questions?"

"You'd just reply with 'nothin'' or go into some convoluted explanation of your home dimension that would raise more questions," Simon responds.

"You," you say with an accusatory finger, "are the biggest Goddamn spoilsport."

"Anyway," says Yurie, pile-driving the conversation back into place, "Ebrietas and I are confident in our theory."

"I don't have any evidence ta the contrary, so I'll roll with it. The real question is whose dream this is."

"Whoever it is, they're behind Rom. Neither the Hunters' Nightmare nor the Hunters' Dream have anywhere near as much tangible impact on Yharnam as that place. Based on our observations, the realm contains both its own host and that of Yharnam; their consciousness didn't make the pilgrimage to its creation that the others did."

"How exactly did you determine this?" says Simon.

"Signal emission. Among other things, Byrgenwerth excelled in the study of realms beyond our own and we developed instruments to measure their infringement on our reality. Everything has its own frequency, which we can catalog and derive working theories from based on its intensity and presence among atypical phenomena." Yurie wheels a chalkboard out from somewhere among the buckling bookshelves and goes to work; Simon appears genuinely enthralled by her sketching. "Ebrietas, being a Great One, is naturally attuned to these frequencies and can identify them with ease. Upon observing the flow of influence around Rom's barrier, she matched it with that surrounding the victims of the 'plague' while simultaneously establishing the presence of its host."

Ebrietas somehow manages to beam.

Yurie tries to launch into further exposition, but instead hacks up some ugly coughs and takes a deep pull of water. "I'm sorry; still not used to talking this much."

"Not a problem," Simon replies.

"In any case," she continues after some undignified throat-clearing, "that's where we stand. The one upside is that we appear to be in a sort of stasis, possibly due to Father Anderson's influence."

"Ye mean the fact that I'm here or my body count?"

"Either or," she shrugs. "If you elect to kill Rom, and I firmly suggest you do, things will go south immediately. Until then, however, we seem to be stuck in a sort of limbo. If there's anything you need to take care of, do it first. You have, as far as we can tell, all the time in the world."

"Knew it was fuckin' Limbo," you say with a righteous snap of your fingers. Simon's influence again precludes a reaction, leaving you to grump into the musty cushions with renewed vigor.

Yurie, whose chalkboard has become an impenetrable mess of recursive scribbles, sits down and takes another drink. Ebrietas gives her a reassuring tentacle-pat. They seem like good influences on each other; maybe Yurie can help tutor your squishiest disciple in the extensive and oft-contradictory ways of man.

"I've been here alone for literally longer than I can fathom," Yurie rasps, voice a tattered tenor. "I've had every opportunity to fix this, but I've been too chickenshit to follow through. I told myself that I just needed more data, needed to be absolutely sure before I did anything. I just didn't want to be responsible for whatever happened next." She chokes out a laugh. "At least I have you to dump that on now."

[] Keep talking
-[] About?

[] Go after Rom

[] Go to
-[] The Chapel
-[] The Dream
-[] The Nightmare

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

"That's my job," you say with a shrug. "A man o' the LORD is sworn ta carry the burdens of his flock."

"Am I part of your 'flock' now?" says Yurie. "You have momentum, Anderson. You catch people in your wake and they can't get away." She curls up and buries her head in her lap. "I'm so tired. Fix this. Please."

"I'll fix it. Don't you worry about that. First, though, somethin's been buggin' me for a while."

"Oh?" She uncoils a bit, educator's instincts overriding her weariness.

"See, when I died and showed up here, everythin' came with me. The coat, the bayonets, even the fancy specs I'm certain were smashed ta bits. So what about that thing I had in my heart?" You move forward a bit in your seat. "Ebrietas, do ye feel anythin' from my chest? If ye can't, would ye mind poppin' my heart out and givin' it a once-over?"

Ebrietas hesitates a moment before responding. Father, you promised me you wouldn't abuse your regeneration anymore. And the last time someone pulled your heart out, you died. I don't want to do that to you. For what it's worth, I can't detect anything on any frequency I know and your heartbeat sounds free of foreign objects.

"Fair enough," you say. "I apologize for that."

She nods and you sink back into your chair.

"So what all have we got to wrap up?" asks Simon. "The Nightmare? You haven't exactly left many stones unturned in Yharnam."

"Think it's just the Nightmare, yeah. Fingers crossed Maria'll let us close the book on that one.

"Speakin' o' Maria," you say, "I've got some more questions for her great-great-great-whatever grandmother." You start to rise before a stern look from Yurie sits you right back down. "Oy, Queenie. Ye been listenin' in on this?"

"We've little else to do," she replies, dryly enough to suffocate whatever hardy fish remain in the lake.

"Any thoughts on the whole 'livin' in a dream' situation?"

"We had not suspected. Trapped in a room, interacting with the outside world only secondhand, We had no point of reference. Our own immortal body robbed Us of any way to measure time."

"Yeah, heard that one before. Any idea who the host might be? Ye bragged about that fuckhuge library, after all. Where's that Cainhurst knowledge ye tried ta tempt me with?"

When she remains silent, you put on your smuggest look, one so blindingly irritating that even a foot of iron can't save her from it. "Or was all that just a bluff?"

"You are playing to Our pride. Do you really think that's going to work?"

"Considerin' I'm fine and ye're a head on a table? Yeah, I kinda do."

Her sullen silence radiates the patience of ages, the unflappable demeanor of a born monarch.

"Just talk," says Simon. "I'll throw you both in the damn lake if I have to and, unlike you, he can swim."

"Fine," she grumbles. "Give me a moment to think."

It's actually three or four moments, but you're a nice enough guy to let it slide.

"It may have to do with the source of Our blood: Yharnam, Queen of the Pthumerians. They ruled the catacombs beneath the city in ages past and their writing speaks of her tryst with Formless Oedon, the Great One for whom your chapel is named. She bore his child, Mergo, but he came out stillborn. The collected works of Loran, Isz, the Hintertombs, and Pthumeria offer no better possibilities than Oedon, Queen Yharnam, or Mergo himself."

"You said he died at birth," says Simon.

"In the human sense, perhaps. Great Ones do not die as we do. Their consciousness persists, much like the dreamers of whom you speak."

"Counterpoint: I beat the shit out of a couple o' Amygdalae and they died proper."

"The situations were slightly different, Anderson."

"Byrgenwerth did encounter the remnants of Pthumeria," Yurie chimes in. "Some of our explorers actually acquired a blood sample from their queen, but someone defected to Cainhurst and took the sample with them. As far as I can tell, she's telling the truth."

"Not like she has any reason ta lie at this point besides raw spite and there are better ways ta go about that." You rise again, halting Yurie's own rise with a wave of your hand. "I'm not gonna do anythin' mean; just givin' her a reward for her cooperation."

Scrounging among the building's various chairs, you locate a suitably plump cushion. You heave Annalise into the air, put the cushion beneath her neck stump, and plop her back down. She doesn't thank you, but you take the lack of biting sarcasm as a sign of approval.

"Is that all you need, Anderson?" Yurie says. "Are you ready?"

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[Tricia]

"I'm ready," you say. "Gotta go make sure the posse is, too. Think it's time for a group meetin' at the chapel."

"I'll join you," Yurie replies. "Ebrietas and I can provide more technical details."

"And yer decision has nothin' ta do with finally gettin' out o' this well-respected academic institution?"

"Perish the thought."

Brushing aside some splinters and weaponry you didn't manage to dislodge, she removes a panel in the nearest wall to reveal a bug-out bag big enough to serve as an effective blunt instrument. Ebrietas helps her adjust a couple of the straps as she un- and refurls her cane a few times.

"You alright with carrying a third passenger, Ebrietas?" Simon chimes in, smoothing a few wayward tatters of his cloak back into place. The ensemble actually looks worse afterwards, but you've never been a dedicated follower of fashion and so you let it slide.

Yep!

She gives a quick flex and Simon nods approvingly.

After being firmly assured that Annalise is happy where she is, the four of you soon gather outside and take to the skies. The other two vertebrates are slow to join your parting middle finger, but eventually do so with gusto. It's another pleasant flight on Air Ebrietas, bereft of errant gargoyles or, despite your fears, several Amygdalae stacked on top of one another in an ingenious anti-air platform. You even remember to give Yurie a cross well before you land; don't want a repeat of the time you forgot to tell a visiting diplomat about the jury-rigged flamethrowers you keep pointed at the orphanage's back door.

The Byrgenwerthian (Byrgenwerther?) fits right into your menagerie, unfazed by Liam's hugeness or the array of injured Churchmen down below. Eileen and Djura, now awake and mobile, help you gather the squad on the ground floor while Fiddle and Emma get some tea going. Arianna makes an effort to stand before being forcefully remanded to Djura's old bed.

"Get some rest this time or I'll use the straps," says Iosefka with uncharacteristic steel.

With Agatha's guidance, Alexandria and Todd scrounge up a chalkboard from the depths of a storage closet and wheel it out. You put it near the door both to maximize seating room and ensure that Ebrietas is close to the action. Once your throat finishes regenerating from overeager tea consumption, you get started.

"So it turns out our entire reality is a lie."

Gotta hook 'em with the first sentence. That's the trick.

The lecture goes rather well, you'd say. Yurie and Ebrietas take over for the complicated bits, leaving you to perform informative pantomime as needed. When the time comes for questions, quite a few raise their hands; Todd picks up the intricacies of dimensional manipulation much more quickly than you'd have thought. Just goes to show that you can't always judge someone's worth by their competence in their current profession.

"We're trapped in the dream of an unfathomable creature," says Eileen, "and your solution is to stab the problem until it goes away?"

"I'll stop usin' rampant violence ta solve my problems when it stops workin'."

"As much as I'd prefer some complicated plan that demanded all of our unique skills, stabbing is honestly the easiest way to go about it," Yurie confirms with a shrug. "Trust me, I'm every bit as disappointed as you are."

"You're a harbinger of something, Father Anderson," your fine feathered friend continues. "I'm still not entirely sure what. So what should we do while you're off saving the world?"

"Batten down every hatch ye can find. Everyone either inside or touchin' the ward at all times. Shit's gonna hit the fan and, with the way things've gone tonight, that might wind up bein' literal. I'm gonna stop by the Nightmare first, so there's a bit of a grace period, but we can't dally for long."

"I'm willing to join in your attack," says Jonathan. A few of his fellow Church Hunters nod in agreement.

"Need ye here ta protect the place," you reply with a shake of your head. "Also, be honest; wouldn't ye rather be here in a fortified position with a Goddamn minigun than in some horrific nightmare plane?"

They seem unsure.

"Within' strikin' distance o' me?"

They seem more sure.

You adjourn the meeting with a reading of Psalms 144. Everyone's a good sport about it, bowing their heads and everything, and quickly get to work once the group Amen dies down. Doors are barred, gunners take their places at windows, and noncombatants begin organizing weapons and ammo. Liam carries the one-legged Steffon up the stairs, a beast of a scoped rifle in the latter's hands. Djura marches towards you.

"I'm coming with you back to the Nightmare."

"Wouldn't ye rather stay with Steffon?"

"I'm not sitting in a tower while the world burns around me again. I spoke to him and he understands."

"Fair enough. Simon, comin'?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Yurie?"

She shakes her head. "I need to stay here and make sure your 'ward' is up to snuff. Ask me again when it's time to hit Rom."

With three-quarters of the original Nightmare Squad in tow, you head outside, though not before you tell Emma and Fiddle your best potato casserole recipe and gather up the necessary ingredients for them. It'll be a fun project while everyone's getting ready to rumble. Ebrietas sends you down the metaphorical yellow brick road and Maria rises to meet you.

"Father Anderson. What do you need?"

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