daud | the knife of dunwall (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wolfofdunwall) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2018-08-29 10:57 pm
wolfofdunwall) wrote in kingdomsofrain2018-08-29 10:57 pm
dishonored meme
***
a dishonored meme
'ever since the empress died, it's been getting darker in dunwall. but it's that moment just before the light goes that matters most of all.'
the isles are caught amid fractious days, and you find yourself living among them. perhaps - probably - you’ve lived here all your life. perhaps you’ve been brought here by some magical means. whatever the case, you’ve made or will make a life among the isles.
if you were born in or around the isles, what’s your lot in life? are you nobility? a person of great means? a member of the city watch? a shipmate? an inventor? perhaps a civilian just trying to make your way through the rat plague. perhaps a thief, a gang member, an assassin. perhaps a witch or a devotee of the outsider, or perhaps an overseer, scourge of the occult.
when you comment, add a little bit about who your character is in the dishonored world. what your occupation is (if you have one), what you think about recent events, what you tend to do with your days. (if you want to give multiple options re: who they are, feel free!)
you might also want to offer some prompts: scenario ideas, picture prompts, quotes, words, whatever you like.
daud | dishonored-era
prompts
1) ”The world is leaking at the edges.”
—Detailing Trauma: A Poetic Anatomy, Arianne Zwartjes
or
"Will you suffocate me with your strangeness, though I’m
miserable as I am?
I liked hell; could I possibly like mercy better?”
—Alice Notley, 'Living On Brackish Water'
2) 1 or/and 2 or/and 3 or/and 4.
3) Phosphene Dream, The Black Angels
4) wild card.
mix and match prompts as you like, or send some of your own. and if you want to plot, send me a pm or hit me up at
2: 2 and 4
Assassinations. It should have bothered him. He should have turned away... but he didn't, it was all he knew. The fact there was food and some amount of shelter helped and the Whalers were in some part... like a family to him. (One that dealt in death, but still a family, nonetheless.)
Years soon pass and Oscar has gone from a gofer to a scout, to an accomplice, to an assassin in his own right. He's not the starving kid in the streets anymore, but some things still remain. When the boy feels lost he finds a rooftop few can find and sits there, looking up at the moon.
Things have... changed since their leader took the (admittedly huge, even for them) job of killing a sitting Empress. Everyone else seemed to celebrate it as a sign that they ruled the shadows of this rotten city, but Oscar isn't so sure. (Plus Billie is off somewhere, and he feels the loss of her.)
He doesn't claim to know what their leader thinks, but there's just something in the air.
Just something.
no subject
He knows what the Whalers have been saying about her. That there's been a mix of tales true and otherwise concerning her sudden disappearance. Some say she'd been sent on a mission. Some that she'd gone to form her own gang. Others tell the truth of it: that she'd betrayed her brethren and been sent into exile, spared by a leader whose actions are becoming more and more inexplicable. He's heard their mutterings: that he's gone soft, that he should have taken Billie's life. (A thought he hadn't entertained for a moment. An action he wouldn't take, not against her, certainly not after everything that's happened.) He watches them closely, hardly pays it any mind.
He's all too aware of her absence. He tries not to dwell on it. Tries not to think about the way he feels surrounded by absences these days, spaces where something's been wrenched away. Spaces where he doesn't feel like himself and can't make contact with himself. What's he meant to do in all of this?
Find Delilah. End her calamitous plan.
The pieces are coming together, the outline of a raid beginning to form. If he can deal with her. If he can follow this trail to it's end, maybe then... What? There's no use in guessing; he'll find out when the time comes.
Tonight what he wants is silence, space to consider his next move without the distraction of Whalers whispering from the next room, without the feeling that he's being watched. No one watches as carefully as Billie had, but he knows the assassins are uneasy, seeking signs of what's gone wrong and what's to come, maybe seeking their chance to have a try at him. (Let them come if they like; however off-kilter he feels, he's lost none of his edge, none of his ability to end a fight with a few bare strikes.)
He transverses from roof to roof, moving far afield from the base, until he spots someone on the roof ahead. One of his own, and it takes mere moments to determine who. Masked or not, he knows each of his Whalers by figure and footfall, posture and minute gesture.
It's no surprise to find Oscar so far removed from the others. From the beginning he'd preferred to keep his own company. (He's like Billie that way. Like her too in his capacity for speaking plainly of a situation.) He's a worthy assassin, proves himself further with each mission. And it occurs to Daud that his might not be the worst company to keep tonight, if only for a moment.
When he appears on the next roof, he clears his throat, gives the boy time to register his presence before stepping forward, toward the roof's edge. Though he keeps Oscar in his periphery, his focus settles on the flooded ruins before them.
"You're far from home."
no subject
This is what it takes for disloyalty to happen, just doubt. The only family he's known might be broken apart for this. Also, their Leader is the only link to the powers that they have. A direct link, mind. Without him, they would be nothing but glorified murderers in gas masks.
(And it's not like Oscar himself didn't think about attempting to call The Outsider himself to get that mark, just in case anything should happen to Daud. Powers or none, he's human and an assassin. Especially now, seeing as their leader killed an Empress. Someone is bound to want revenge or sweep them away to cover their tracks, Jessamine was loved by the people but surrounded by snakes. And the fact is they as a people in this profession aren't expected to live long, despite what his own fellow Whalers think.)
Oscar hears the telltale rasp of his throat clearing. He figures if anyone could find this place he comes over to think, it's Daud. He stops looking at the moon to look at Daud.
He tries to not automatically salute in sight of him. No one else is here, there's no need for an outward show of respect.
"I know, I come here sometimes to think and be alone. Promise not to tell anyone about it?"
He loves the Whalers like his own family, but sometimes he needs time alone. Especially now that Thomas is the new second in command and he's been scouting for him on his missions lately. Leading to Oscar inheriting the friction amongst his fellow assassins Thomas has been getting lately.
Sometimes, he misses Billie. When she was around, no one was jockeying for power. Or maybe he has just naive enough to believe in that.
no subject
Daud doubts that this boy is among the ones who've been chorusing in mutinous whispers. Oscar's deadly when pitted against outsiders, but among his fellow Whalers, he seems to lack malice. Seems more than others to take them as brethren. (Which makes a kind of sense, perhaps. The boy was the youngest recruit Daud's ever accepted, brought in partly due to Thomas's unceasing requests. Has known the Whalers for over half his life.) And if Oscar's like Billie in his preference for distance, the boy's like Thomas in his unerring loyalty, the formalities that spring from apparent earnestness.
He turns his head toward Oscar, quickly looks him over. The boy makes a lonely figure in the moonlight, though that's a useless thought, means little (lately, he's been plagued by useless thoughts, idle observations and sentiments that serve as distractions, nothing more). If Daud were in a less abstracted mood, he might have raised an eyebrow at the boy's question. As it is, he only turns his gaze back to the ruins around.
"They don't need to know of it.
"It's quiet."
no subject
He's glad Daud will keep this private place of his own private, it means he can still have a few moments to himself even with all the whispers and doubt going about the gang.
"Precisely. It's why I come up here. Sometimes... I need time to myself to think. Do you need me? Has anything gone wrong Master?" After all, it does seem a little suspicious that he would come here.
no subject
And those words. 'Has anything gone wrong.' A question Daud can hardly begin to answer for himself, certainly can't answer in front of any of his assassins. The answer would be too ranging, deeper than he cares to think. So he pulls out a cigarette, lighting it in a practiced motion. Takes a draw.
"No. I would have summoned you if I did."
Really, he doesn't need to flee so far to find silence anymore. Over the past six months, he'd become accustomed to having Billie on his tail, trailing him so keen it could take half an hour or more to lose her. Now that she's gone, there's little risk in keeping closer to base. The other Whalers watch, yes, but theirs is a more distant observation, better satisfied hanging back (then, too, Billie was perhaps the only one he'd have accepted such tailing from).
"We can all use a little quiet."
daud | return of daud-/doto-era
prompts
1) "Everyone is composed of their losses, they are purely negative, where the firing squad has nothing to aim at."
—Alice Notley, In the Pines
or
"There is nothing in this new landscape that remembers me."
-Naomi Wallace, Inland Sea
2) 1 or/and 2 or/and 3.
3) Leviathan, Mark Lanegan
4) wild card.
mix and match prompts as you like, or send some of your own. and if you want to plot, send me a pm or hit me up at
for feelsocold
The plan to kill the Empress's daughter had been crafted in response to the Empress's recent crackdown on the Whalers, a policy that had spelled the death of seven assassins and a recent relocation of headquarters. Daud had been livid, announcing that no Empress would impinge so freely on his domain. She'd pay for what she had done, she'd see what it meant to tangle with Daud, and he vowed that she would never, never repeat this mistake.
It had been so carefully constructed, so elegant in its conception. And it should have been easy: in past the guards without a trace, attack, and vanish again before anyone even knew the girl was dead. Leave her to be found by her mother, plan the moment perfectly so that Jessamine would be struck with the devastating sight.
Only it hadn't worked that way. As soon as he'd laid hands on the girl, something had changed. Something in the way he saw himself, saw the whole stretch of his life in Dunwall, and he'd stopped just short of driving the dagger through her. Knocked her out and grabbed her instead, taking her back to the Whalers' newest base.
He explained it afterward as a change in strategy. Most of the Whalers accepted the tale (not Billie; she's been watching him close ever since, always too keen, too aware of his moods and tells). After all, it made sense enough to keep the girl as a bargaining chip, a way of prompting the Empress into reshaping her policies. Leave the Whalers be, and you can have your daughter back. Continue on your destructive path, and you have only yourself to blame when she's left bleeding, cold.
It didn't end there. Because he hadn't been the same after. Found himself distracted, staring off at nothing and entertaining idle questions about himself, his motives. Found himself forsaking sleep more and more. And one day, abstracted and alone, he'd been captured. Caught off-guard by a group of those self-righteous Void-forsaken Overseers. It'd been unlike him. And there was no changing it, not when their music box rang incessant through his bones, not when he discordant notes left him unable to move, let alone strike back or retreat.
Now he's in a cell, head pounding, reminding himself again, again, not to shout at the pain, not to give them the satisfaction. It's difficult. Difficult even to think straight. There's an Overseer cranking at a music box just outside the door, and there's music being piped in over some radio system. Soft enough to keep from utterly overwhelming him, but it's more than sufficient to render his Void powers useless and his mind to grating, his entire body protesting in an ache of pain.
He wants it to end. He's not sure it ever will. Doesn't know where he is or what's to be done with him, though he has his guesses and none of them bode well. This was all a mistake. And there's no taking any of it back. ]
no subject
Stefano, at the time, had been a simple painter. He adored painting elaborate portraits for others that depicted their true beauty. While not renown, he did not ever have to worry about the plague or a meal. That was until one day a client found fault in his depiction. It ended as all matters end -- with blood and a bladed weapon broken in his right eye. His body ended up thrown into an alleyway to let the rats eat it, to cover up the murder, but the artist was able to drag himself to a shrine of the Outsider.
The mark burned into his left hand as soon as his bloodied hands touched the shrine. And so, Stefano survived with the blade still broken and embedded in his right eye. Like so many before him, madness ate away at him -- yet he remembered one thing. True beauty comes from the horror that the person lives through. It is through the destruction experienced did a person live a fuller, better life filled with unimaginable beauty.
However, unlike all of the others that came before him, Stefano did not care if the Outsider approved of him or not. He did not feel indebted to him for saving his life; he didn't care what the one that hid behind the veils in the Void thought of him at all. What does it matter? I'm making art in the real world. What does one who walks in the subconscious and on the outskirts of reality know of my work? The artist began to carve a bloody path for himself -- leaving eviscerated bodies displayed and hung on display with wire that cut deep into the corpse's flesh.
It was uncertain what the Outsider thought of Stefano, but he did come to the artist during one night in his dreams. He dismissed the black-eyed god, at first, stating that he needed his dreams to himself so that he could imagine new masterpieces. However, the Outsider merely laughed at him and gave him a name -- Daud, the Knife of Dunwall. Stefano did not understand why he was given such a name until he realized that Daud was like him.
He's like me. The artist felt a rush of admiration and adoration fill him. Someone who could understand what it is that I'm doing! Because all the papers and the audiographs seemed to delight in misunderstanding his work. Just like that aristocrat! But surely, someone who paints in blood as I do will understand me. It was then that he decided to get to work to catch the attention of the Knife of Dunwall. He did not know how to find him -- and he knew better than to kill his Whalers when he came across them.
To kill the Whalers would be the same as defacing his own art pieces; that much Stefano understood. No, instead he found corrupt individuals -- individuals that he was certain that the Knife and his assassins would one day focus their attention on. He carved them up, ripping flesh and breaking bone, all to display them proudly in a place that he hoped would be seen by (or heard about) the Whalers. The words painted in the victim's blood was always written upon the walls surrounding their cooling corpses: "FOR THE KNIFE OF DUNWALL."
Daud should feel so honored that Stefano was going so far out of his way to dedicate various masterpieces to him. (Or well, that was what the artist believed each time he carved a body up, each time he ripped a limb free to paint on the walls.) He wondered how long it would be before the Knife came to find him. He wondered how long he would have to wait. It didn't matter; there were plenty of artists that spent years hoping their muse would come to recognize and appreciate them -- he believed he was no different. ]
i love everything about this jesus christ.
Then the scenes turned stranger still, Daud's own title invoked.
The first few times it happened, Daud paid the matter little enough mind. Had his people analyze the scene, describing it in detail, seeking signs of ill intent. If it was a death threat, it was unclear and ineffective. And deeming it a death threat didn't sit right. Something about the scenes seemed showier than that. More like enthusiastic displays than any kind of hazard. It isn't the first time some sad sod in this city has tried to catch his attention. Isn't even the first time someone's tried to call out via a corpse or some half-assed hit. But Daud's never heard of bodies transformed with such... morbid finesse.
And indeed, when Daud at last visited a scene, beheld the repurposed body of a notorious bastard of a banker, he'd been struck by the uncommon - if unnecessarily applied - skill. It was fascinating, almost. One of his Whalers had been sick, while a couple of others had been amused. Inspecting the scene for signs of the creator's identity, Daud had declared himself unimpressed.
Still, as word came that fresh bodies had been found, he'd visited another scene. Then another.
By now he's seen four of the stranger's sites. The work reminds Daud of occultists he's known, people who worked in entrails and animal corpses, who occasionally exhumed human bodies for their bones or sought organs from fresh kills. Only he's never seen any of them go to these lengths. Doesn't know if they'd possess the capacity, because some of this work seems almost impossible in its intricacy.
What he reads in these scenes is intensity. Excess. Removal from the world of most men. And an intensity of focus that Daud could almost respect.
Maybe this one is worth contacting, after all.
Once Daud makes the decision, it doesn't take long for his assassins to track the madman down. There are whispers among them, rumors of witchcraft that they only half-credit, doubting their eyes, doubting the potential. Something to keep in mind; something that Daud expects no trouble from, not for him, not given his powers and his skill. And then word comes that the man's been spotted at work.
Daud arrives with quiet suddenness, appearing a couple of yards behind the lithe stranger, sword at his side, arms folded. He doesn't expect this to take long. ]
Tell me what you want.
i am filled with love right back!!
[ The mark on his hand glows bright as time slows to a crawl. Stefano can take the time to laugh -- listening to how distorted it sounds in the frozen space -- as he walks forward to start carving into the body of the aristocrat. He has the time to acquire metal rods to jam into the body at an angle to force the person down upon their knees into a prayer pose. The rods are jammed in a diagonal fashion so that it pins the legs down and the arms just above the elbow.
Carving out the heart, he has to pull it carefully free to place it into the hands of the man. It now looks like the man is offering his heart outward. Stefano smiles in a fond way as he takes a step backwards -- and time resumes. He tilts his head to listen as his masterpieces sputters out its final words: "Who are you?" It's the last question asked before the reality of the situation hits the body, mind, and soul. Screams and blood pour out but the man is already dead. He's already dead and just catching up to it.
Spinning around, he starts as he finds that he is not alone. Stefano gasps, as he sets one hand on his chest, not realizing that he actually had an audience. ]
Ah! You scared me half to death. Coming into my workshop -- [ His words start to come out annoyed, cold, before he takes a good look at who is standing before him. He gasps anew as he ignores the death wails behind him. In a burst of smoke, he disappears next to his art piece to be able to teleport to get closer. ] -- oh! It is you!
You got my messages! No, you got my works of art! I'm afraid I was getting a little desperate and starting to use more conventional designs to get my point across. [ He makes a little gesture toward his latest work before waving his hand in a dismissive manner. ] But you're here! Daud, the Knife of Dunwall! Oh, he really is good for something, isn't he? [ Talking too fast, talking too much, he could not help himself as he spills out all he has been feeling for these past few weeks. ]
Well, I can't say that he's good for much. But he gave me your name and so I'll say that he's good at least for that... so does that make him partially useful? No, that may be going too far. Oh, it doesn't matter. You're here! [ His arms open. ] Please, let me get you some wine or something. I'm certain this man must have some high quality vintage drink that I can offer in his stead.
meanwhile daud hates everything
As soon as he sees the telltale glow, feels the familiar way time slows around him, he sees the truth written plain. Because there's no other explanation. Because suddenly the Whalers' rumors of witchcraft fall into place. Because Daud knows he's not the only one who's ever taken the Mark. Because Daud knows the feeling of the Void's energy too well, and he knows that glow on the man's hand.
That bastard. That black-eyed Void-forsaken plague-ridden bastard.
(It shouldn't matter. Daud accepted long ago that the Outsider was through with him, has told himself that he's better off without the bastard's interference. But to see another man Marked. To find so suddenly that there's another still who can harness the Void's powers—)
Daud tenses, reaching for his sword, and his first instinct is to take a fighting stance, ready to defend himself, to attack, to deal with this unexpected mess in whatever way he must. Only the man in front of him doesn't move to charge, doesn't tense himself for combat. The man simply looks, moves forward - Daud tenses further at the disappearance, hand wrapping a firmer hold around his sword - and...
Talks. Begins to speak and Daud could believe he'll never cease. Speaks Daud's name, speaks quickly, speaks of— 'He'? 'He,' who is the man—? Oh. For fuck's sake. Everything. Everything leads back to the Outsider. Daud suspects the snide little shit of a god's determined to toy with him again. Suspects he watching this encounter with a smirk, pleased with himself as always.
Caught up in his irritation (no, rage; it's fast becoming a feeling of rage) with the Outsider, Daud has to almost force himself to focus on the man before him, taking note of the ways he moves, the tenor of his voice, some strange flash in his hidden eye socket, each and every tension that might signal an attack.
He should kill this blathering wreck of a man before this goes any further.
Only for all Daud knows, the Outsider's expecting a fight, hoping to pit two of his Marked against each other. It'd be another form of entertainment. It doesn't hurt that among this man's onslaught of words included a handful of indications that he's not especially enamored of the Outsider. And it's true that Daud's curious. There's that focus he'd detected in the display of the man's victims. There's the question of why this man - this Marked man - had worked so extensively to call Daud's attention.
Daud will need to play this careful - and he doesn't intend to give the man much leeway - but for the moment he opts not to plunge his blade into the wretched man's throat. ]
You.
[ His voice cuts through the air between them, rough and impactful. ]
He found you interesting.
[ It has the ring of an accusation, the vague suggestion of a question. ]
BUT ART, DAUD!
Possibly? Who's to say? The few times that we've talked, I've shooed him off. [ His expression sours as he explains why, complete with rolling his eyes and waving his hand dismissively like one of Dunwall's rich dismissing a poorly-made meal. ] What use do I have for someone who sits outside of everything and observes? [ Stefano lets out a loud and suffering sigh. ] He is forever safe within his dreams and his Void. So he does not know anything of the art that I am creating. He does not know anything about living.
[ His shoulders lift and lower as he shrugs in a nonchalant way. ] But just this once he has proven somewhat worth knowing... he let me know who you are. [ And his face immediately brightens up as he takes yet another step closer. ] You're someone who lives in the here and the now. You don't live in a safe or careful way. You don't observe. You affect this world in a shower of blood, bone, and ruined flesh. [ Stefano looks up at Daud with great admiration. ]
I had heard of you before him, of course. Who hasn't heard of you? But I, foolishly, thought you were but mortal assassin. A good killer is a good killer, but you have his Mark and ... you're also creating beauty. You're creating a new vision for this world to walk in! [ He takes a sweeping step backwards to gesture towards the corpse now cooling behind them, the pool of blood growing underneath him. ]
You're just like me!
cue the deepest facepalm in all the world
Perhaps this man isn't wholly mad, after all. So long as Daud ignores his claim that they're somehow exactly alike. It's a ridiculous idea, and Daud's gaze sharpens at its sound, but it isn't enough to put him off.
Amid the chaos of words, what catches Daud most is the talk of 'him.' The 'him' who's been shooed away - an act Daud can understand; an act Daud could applaud - and who 'sits outside of everything.' The 'him' who's so neatly anatomized by this man, who seems not to have impressed this self-styled artist.
Daud hopes the black-eyed bastard regrets what he's done. The strange, flitting creature he's unleashed. (But that's too much to hope for, isn't it? More likely, the Outsider's enjoying the show this one provides. More likely, the Outsider knew exactly what he was doing when he marked this man.) ]
You speak as if you've known him for years.
[ Again there's an unintentional accusation in the statement, a tone Daud would deny if confronted. ]
But you're right about the bastard.
[ Daud produces and lights a cigarette, takes a deep draw and looks around. ]
This is your work.
both hands on his face as he sighs loudly
[ Even as a Marked, he does not feel the Outsider's influence in anything that he does. He only sees him watching and commenting -- like an aristocrat waiting to say they hate his painting.
Stefano smiles at hearing Daud agree with him. That's right. The Knife must have known him for a long time. Poor man. He offers no real insight into anything that we're doing and so I can only imagine how useless he has been in helping to craft a new future for Dunwall out of the corpses of the corrupt. ]
It is. Though, I must say that it is also a lot more ... rudimentary than my other works. I fear, as I said, I was growing a bit desperate. I was thinking you might have thought my previous works of art as a challenge, or threat against your life! [ His hand once more rests upon his chest as he lets out a pained sigh. ] But I was certain that you would understand that it was not... when I left your Whalers alive.
They're quite endearing pieces of art that you've made. [ He leans forward with his hands clasped behind his back. ] They carry with them a vision and a beauty in their kills that only you could have given them. I noticed them following me... and looking into what I was doing. I was worried that they'd attempt to do something foolish, but glad that they did not.
If I killed one, it would feel the same as someone stabbing one of my paintings. It would have to be answered in blood. And I could only accept your anger. [ In short, he is relieved that they never drew too closer or gave off the air that they were itching for a fight with him. ] But I've gone on about your works of art.
Please... tell me what you think of mine!
this icon is what's up
Not all of the phrases the stranger spews are so well-received.
Daud could point out that he has known the Outsider for years. That before the little shit went silent, there had been frequent visits, conversations held beyond the realm of dreams. But Daud prefers to think that none of that matters. Reminds himself once again that he's better of without the bastard.
He could point out that if he'd read the man's bloody messages as death threats, the man wouldn't be standing right now. Mark or not, he'd be dead in the gutter, a feast for rats.
And... Is the man asking for feedback?
For fuck's sake. ]
I'm no critic.
[ He takes another draw on the cigarette, releases the smoke. ]
And I don't have your name.
how amazingly accurate!!
[ He is positively beaming as he agrees wholeheartedly that Daud is no critic, no fool. ]
I am Stefano. Stefano Valentini. [ For a second, he thinks he should give a bow but he decides against it. ] It's unfortunate that you do not have my name ... I suppose I shall never be as famous as the Knife of Dunwall. This... I have come to accept. Even if I were to kill you, I would only be known as the man who killed Daud. [ His arms open as he drops his head down in surrender. He admits completely that he cannot step out of the shadow that the assassin has created. ]
What good is that? You're truly a master and I am still an apprentice at this business of murder. No matter how glamorous I present my art, they always compare it to yours. [ Whether or not that is true is up for debate; it's true to Stefano. ] But I still have a vision for this world. A vision where we can learn to live with the horrors that we have endured and suffered. [ He takes a sweeping step backwards, opening his arms to the sky, to Dunwall. ]
Within these horrors, we can come to find the beauty that is our life! Within the pain that we are constantly in, we learn to see the glory of what we have been given. [ Pivoting, he faces Daud before he lifts his bangs to show his eye. A broken piece of a knife still embedded in the socket. ] Behold ... the pain of this injury still chases after me during every waking and sleeping moment.
But even so, I am ... ignited with inspiration to create. [ He throws his hand out toward the corpse he's mutilated for his art. ] Even so, I feel a desire to give back to this city and to have them walk this path with me. And that is why, yes, that's why I wanted to talk about a collaborative piece.
no subject
Well.
Daud doesn't tense at the absurd way this man speaks so lightly of killing him, those his gaze sharpens, and he feels a burning pulse of irritation. As if this man could. As if he so easily could. It's a ridiculous notion, and one that Daud decides is scarcely worth addressing.
Nor does he shift at the sight of the man's ruined eye. He's seen worse, after all. Has inflicted greater waste on others. True, it's strange to see someone walking around in this fashion. Strange to see somebody survive such a wound, let alone set it out for brief display. And though Daud mostly assumes that the blade remains embedded because moving it would kill the man, there's a part of him that wonders whether Stefano left it there - or planted the blade himself - for the sake of appearances. (It'd fit, somehow. It wouldn't be surprising, dramatic as this bastard is.)
He doesn't point out that he's seen no mention of Stefano's so-called work compared with his own assassinations. Doesn't see why anyone would draw the connections. Daud's work is at once graceful and practical, subtle, and he kills for show only (mostly) when the clients ask for it. While Daud won't deny that there's been a certain grace to Stefano's displays, the overall affect is much more grandiose, and he seems to kill for (does he truly kill for?) the sake of the display itself, and for the sake of his name.
He'd ask about the wound, but he isn't interested. Doesn't need to know more than what's he's already gleaned. And what it tells him - it, combined with the way Stefano speaks of his art, of presenting the world with his vision - is that this man possesses a powerful strength of will. Which is why Daud remains where he is. Which is why he shows no signs of retreat. Which is why this man continues to hold his attention. ]
I don't work well with others.
And I'm not interested in walking with the wretches of this city.
[ Daud's always been more concerned with moving beyond the city. Stepping out from its bounds, twining it into his grasp. ]
no subject
[ Stefano dismisses the comment that he does not work well with others and ignores the rest -- which is one whole sentence more. ]
If that was true, you would not have your works of art. [ His shoulders drop as it seems like he has not done enough to impress Daud with his own masterpieces. Clicking his tongue, the artist understands the reason why. He rests his hand over his good eye as he lets out a suffering sigh. ] I understand ... yes, I understand completely.
I have been far too ... desperate for your approval that I have ended up causing you to doubt my abilities. [ His hand slides away. He decides to change gears in order to appeal to the man with his insight. ] This city ... is the heart of everything. It's where his attention is, you know. As much as I dislike the Outsider for doing no more than watching, I understand that he sees Dunwall as important. [ He turns his gaze away from Daud to look toward the corpse he has put on display. ]
Why do you think that is? [ A beat. He can't contain himself -- and he spins back around. Stefano takes one-two-three quick steps to draw back into Daud's space. His expression reads of someone who wants to say something but he holds himself back. Like an eager schoolboy, he believes he knows the answer but waits to hear the assassin's answer first. ]
. dishonored au
Being a child of a witch is not a new or unfamiliar story. He knew small cantrips to keep himself from sleeping on filthy, wet alley cement. His abilities caught the eye of a duke that decided to take the child in for his own amusement -- to twist the witch-boy into becoming a sideshow attraction to entertain his other wealthy acquaintances. But while it turned Mitsuhide's life into a cruel joke, Mitsuhide felt grateful.
He learned the meaning of humility. He learned the meaning of courtesy. He learned the meanings of many words and stuffed himself full of them until he felt like his insides would burst. Again, this story was nothing revolutionary. It was one quietly told in the shadows of the city once before.
It was only when the duke had grown old and the witch-child became an adult did the story change. What complicated it was people. Like Delilah Copperspoon and her ritual. For it was upon hearing her story, the duke wondered ... and a series of ideas struck.
What if that ritual could be used for the benefit of a group instead of the benefit of one? What if he and his people could control the ritual-marked monstrosity? What if they could have that creature take control of the Void? What if they could create a God that would listen to the desires of the people to replace the observer?
This was how Daud and his Whalers came to find the power-driven duke and his associates. The Outsider whispered the duke's name and lead the Knife to stop their mad intentions. An easy task. A simple task... if not for the controlled Mitsuhide.
He no longer has the semblance of a human. He crawled on his hands and knees -- fingers long and spidery with fingernails sharpened into fine points. His body appeared skeletal and emaciated. His eyes and mouth filled with the black of the Void. Incapable of coherent speech, driven to the peak of madness, he launched into an attack against the Knife and Whalers.
Daud drove in fast, clean in order to take the creature down. His skill outmatched his assassins and allowed him to draw in close to deal a killing blow. He slammed his blade into the beast's neck. He took hold of the hilt and bladed edge and twisted until he heard the neck snap, until he saw the bones poke through the skin in jagged ruin. But no blood came pouring out. Instead, only more Void black pooled out from the injured throat. The Void pooling started to mend the injury. Even as he healed, the monstrosity did not remain still.
Daud realized then they'd be fighting a losing fight if they continued. Stamina, strength, constitution and will would eventually crumble under horror. But cutting their loses and leaving was out of the question. If the duke and his people were able to push back the Knife, that would give them enough gumption to carry out their schemes -- and possibly succeed.
The black-eyed god was one thing, but to allow the psychotic Void-filled demon take his place was another.
It was one of his Whalers that became aware of the device used to control the deranged beast. She believed once it was broken that the creature would crawl back into the Void. With quick communication to Daud, the Knife sprinted away from the False Man-made God. The duke and his people laughed as they mistook the running as fleeing. They only became aware when it was too late and Daud materialized before the device.
It shattered in a satisfying manner.
What happened next surprised no one. With the mind-control broken, Mitsuhide imploded into a cloud of black smoke. The duke and his people met quick, bloody ends on the sharpened blades of the Whalers. Their bodies were left to rot where they died. A great success! A great win! Everything played out as they expected it to -- but they only took care of a symptom, not the disease.
...
It was weeks later that Mitsuhide resurfaces. His skin is still a pale, pale almost translucent white. His body still skeletal but doesn't look as obviously starved as before. He appears upon the rooftop while Daud surveys the city. His legs are swinging beneath him as he sits on the edge of the roof -- less like a child and more like the dangling of a ball-pinned doll. No fanfare. No puff of smoke. Merely he was not there and then he is.
"I thought the two of us could become friends. I certainly thought that. Yes, I did. I put a lot of effort into friendship. But he refused. He refused completely and absolutely." Mitsuhide giggles as his hand lifts to rub the side of his neck. "My throat ached for a long time. It hurt were you stabbed me. But it's all right. I thank you for the meal. It was very delicious. Thank you. Without it, I may not have recovered myself."
Lifting his chin up a little to indicate the change in topic, he drops his gaze down toward the people below. "Well ... what are you looking at? I was interrupting, wasn't I?"
tfln continuation.
[ Mitsuhide smiles -- always a little too wide, always a little too happy. He leans so far forward that he ends up bowing at the waist. Twisting his head violently to the side, he looks up through his veil of hair to Daud. ]
I practiced and practiced and practiced my calligraphy. [ Lifting the letter up, the man can see that the white of it is stained a dull copper color. It looks like some of the words have bled through the other side of the paper. ]
Not to worry, not to worry! [ Repeating the words he used in another letter, he reassures with a wide-wide smile. ] I didn't use any unnecessary person's blood. I used my own.
[ This may account for why he is looking so much paler than usual. But who could say? He always looks quite pale and ghostly. ] When you write a letter, you need to put yourself into it! You must put yourself into it! So I put myself into it.
But I thought you wouldn't take it... so I can read it to you? Shall I read it to you, instead?
no subject
Being pulled from his home and his work out into the late-morning sun, being faced with this bizarre wreck of a man wasn't part of the agreement. Beholding a letter written in blood wasn't part of the agreement (though really, that's the least surprising part of Mitsuhide's arrival; of course the man would write in blood; of course he fucking would). Dealing face-to-face with Mitsuhide wasn't part of the agreement.
Then again, there'd been a substantial part of Daud that doubted any piece of their agreement would garner adherence. And at least the man's here, and not out hounding Xu Shu. With that in mind, Daud thinks he can tolerate this visit. Keep it brief, keep it basic, and get the bastard out of here with clearer instructions for the next letter. Tell him to mail it, or for fuck's sake even send it through one of those blooding-speaking birds he's so fond of.
Leaving the matter of the letter aside for a moment, he looks over Mitsuhide - the paleness, the near-unreadable set of his body - and sighs internally. He should let the bastard stay standing. Only Daud doesn't have any interest in managing a collapsed Mitsuhide, and he doesn't doubt this man would stand and stands and chatter away as if nothing were awry, right up to the point of passing out. ]
Are you bleeding right now.
no subject
[ Mitsuhide presses his lips into a thin line as his eyes grow wide, looking every bit as a child who has been caught in a lie. The corners of his pressed lips curl until a wide, wide smile breaks across his mouth. Turning his head, he starts to giggle, starts to laugh. High-pitched and manic as he steps backwards, with his arm curled around his stomach and letter still clenched in one hand, he laughs louder. ]
Yes ... yes, I am. [ When his head lifts, his eyes glow with a bright green glow. The small area around him starts to darken as a dark mist spreads out from his very body. ] I had hoped ... I wondered if you would notice. Yes, I wondered. And you did... if you hadn't, that would have been another thing... another thing entirely. [ Lifting his other hand, he shows his palm is red and blood is flowing down from his wrist. ]
... interesting. [ The shape of the stone is turning into a human. The outsides are cracking, cracking. You cannot remain a sinking stone when you see someone you wish to save. His eyes narrow, still glowing green in the bellowing black fog. Or can you? Well, that's another matter... so let us set it aside for now. ]
Ah, ah... yes...? [ Straightening, he drops his arm away from holding his side. The crumpled letter is lifted before he clenches it in his hand -- blood that should have been dried on the paper starts to flow readily onto the ground. ] Well, then, everyone... shall I read my letter?
[ From the black miasma, skulls slowly manifest covered in green flame. They chatter their teeth before flying underneath the bleeding letter to coat themself in the blood. Circling around Mitsuhide, the skulls seem to turn their empty eyesockets onto Daud. ]
Well, then... let's start with the beginning. "Greetings to you, Daud..."
[ The skulls continue to snap together until the bones of the teeth fracture into sharpened, irregular pieces. As he keeps reading his nonsensical letter in which he talks about the weather, his own health (quite poor but he is a mange-ridden dog, so that's understandable, ha-ha), his happiness in writing letters once more -- his summoned spirits dart about to slam themselves into the assassin (break the solid bone of their skull-bodies into flesh), attempt to bite into the arms and legs (with those awful jagged edges of teeth), and make pests of themselves (snapping, snapping their bone jaws together).
But ... Mitsuhide has no desire to kill the man. (Well, no, he really would like to kill him, but now just is not the time.) In truth, his game now is to bully him a little for bullying him away from Xu Shu. Just to tease him a little for being so nervous about him! There's nothing to be nervous about! Even the skulls are low-level spirits under his control. Easily dispensed of with even an unblessed blade!
What is there to be worried about?! What a worrywart! What a worrywart! A little bullying is just what Daud needs to loosen up! He's too stiff! Too stiff like stone! But a little blood and cut flesh easily loosens the flesh! Easily! Yes, that will lead us to the path of humanity and friendship! He giggles merrily. Then, you can start to laugh with me! Let's start to laugh with one another! Let's start to laugh over this little prank! ]
no subject
His gun's going to do him no good. Even the knife at his side, now brandished, can only manage so much. He cracks one skull just above the eye sockets, catches another in the jaws and gives a sharp twist. One catches at the thick material of his glove and he brings the dagger's handle crushing into its hollow socket. But there are too many and he feels them drawing blood, sudden snags of pain that flickers without holding his focus. Best to keep his attention fixed on the attackers. Best to continue striking. Best to determine the best next phase of attack, because this isn't working as well as he needs.
He doesn't want to attack Mitsuhide. Expects it'll yield a fight beyond what he can predict; not beyond what he can handle (he doesn't think, though there's a doubt, a minor discordant wondering), but beyond what he cares to deal with right now. Because he expects a fight with this man might need to end in death. (Because it's be easier, so tempting to strike this one down and end the trouble he's caused.) Because Daud would rather not kill. Not now. Not anymore.
(Only it would. It'd be easier. Be better, in ways.)
He also doesn't want to employ the bastard's powers. Has vowed against drawing on the Void, sworn to himself that he'd keep to his own skills. But if he has to. If this continues. He'll bring time to a halt and crack these summoned skulls one by one, if they can even be so disposed. (Catch Mitsuhide by the throat, if he thinks it might help.)
The bastard's giggling. Mitsuhide's giggling.
Of course he is. Somehow, it seems appropriate. Only natural.
And there's a question: What precisely is Mitsuhide's purpose in coming here? Because strange as he is, Daud doesn't doubt the bastard's got some fixed point. Doesn't doubt that Mitsuhide moves through the world in part by fixing on one seeming purpose after another, dragging himself along bit by grating bit. ]
Stop this. Now.
[ He elbows a skull aside, ignoring the throb of nausea-edged pain, and strikes another aside, barely keeps another from biting at his jaw. ]
Don't be ridiculous.
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Ridiculous? Then, shall we bring this to a close?
[ The punchline. With a sweeping arm gesture, the skulls fall back from their assault before flying upwards. Up, up, up. The fog bellows out, spreading over the small space they occupy. The letter is still held tight in his hand -- he lifts it up for Daud to see before bringing his fist down toward the ground.
The skulls burst into bright green flame before shooting themselvea down on a suicidal crash course. It is when they are just a few feet away that they halt, that everything halted. The black fog disperses under the sunlight's rays. A beat passes as the fire dies off the skulls -- and they float harmlessly back to Mitsuhide. One plops itself down on the top of the madman's head while the others bite and tug to pull his hair in every direction. ]
"Sincerely, Mitsuhide Akechi."
[ Giggling, he concludes his letter. Tossing the crumpled, wet letter to the side, he smiles the same wide-wide smile that he greeted Daud with. The ground that the letter rests upon turns a sickeningly black, blue and bubbles ominously. Releasing Mitsuhide's hair, the skulls lift themselves up into the air before slamming downward -- shattering and ending their reign of terror violently. ]
What do you think? Are your sides not splitting with laughter? No need to hide your amusement from me! Please, let all your merriment out freely!
[ Holding his still bleeding hand out to him: ]
Come! Let all your insides out!
no subject
He doesn't like this man. (If this is a man, a human. If this isn't some half-wreck, total wretch withdrawn from whatever humanity he may once have possessed. What's happened to the earth, now bubbling? What curse had been contained within that letter? And what kind of magic is it that this man possesses?) He doesn't care for what Mitsuhide draws out in him, or the acts that he necessitates. And so Daud glowers, adjusting his grip on his dagger, telling himself to put the weapon away, shove aside the temptation to silence this bastard. Finally sheathes the dagger, eyes fixed on Mitsuhide. ]
I don't think so.
[ Meaning he won't be offering even the ghost of a laugh. Meaning he doesn't intend to let Mitsuhide split his sides one way or another, if that's what the moonstruck bastard has in mind.
Mitsuhide's been enjoying himself. The giggling, the declarations, that obscene smile all suggest as much, though to Daud's eye - to anyone's eye, he'd warrant - it's a warped sort of pleasure. Exulting in panic and pain. Relishing the very scent of blood (and yes, yes, Daud's bleeding now, can feel five or six or seven wounds where the skulls bit sharp).
Daud can feel his teeth gritting together. Feels the telltale gathering of tension at the back of his jaw, the beginning grind of a headache. ]
What do you mean by this.
no subject
[ His bleeding hand pulls back as he assumes Daud is the kind that would not want to share his merry giggling over jokes with one such as himself. ]
Ah, dear, if I keep bleeding I might end up collapsing... one moment, please, one moment. [ A series of chuckles passes his lips as he turns his arm over to see the wound still bleeding. To anyone else's eyes, it is a shallow cut and should not still run red. Rotating his arm one way and the other, he shakes his wrist a little like there is a cramp in his hand. And the wound immediately closes as he breaks the curse he put on himself. ]
What do I mean by this? [ Lifting his hand to his chin, he pinches it between two fingers as he tilts his head. He is attempting to take a pose that he thinks Daud would like and that Daud, himself, has posed in. Look, Mitsuhide says in his actions, I am pretending to think like you think. ] Hm ... let's see... what could I mean by this?
[ He giggles at how Daud is trying so hard to hold back his laughter! He giggles because that is obviously what the tension in his jaw. He giggles because the two of them are now properly sharing a joke together and he looks away to laugh. ] Ah, what could I possibly mean?
no subject
And by the Void. By the fucking Void, it's like talking to - being talked at by - the Outsider himself. The questions without answer, suggestions toward some meaning that only the speaker can perceive. Daud didn't ask for this. Daud absolutely didn't ask for this (though if it's the cost of keeping this bastard away from Xu Shu, he'll accept it; after all, he's been prepared for this breed of periphrastic speaking, if not for the floating skulls).
A question to consider is what kind of magic this man possesses. It's nothing Daud's ever seen before, nor does it sign of the Void. Whatever, whoever Mitsuhide is, he controls powers that evade Daud's knowing. Where he'd gotten them is a mystery. What he can do with them is an unsettling idea. ]
I don't care for riddles. And I'm not one for guessing.
You should have sent your letter.
[ There's a quiet thought, growing the longer he watches this strange excuse for a man. If Mitsuhide's bent their agreement so far as to speak his letter rather than sending it through the mail, what else might he have twisted? Right now, the thought's barely discernible, but with each quirk of Mitsuhide's, it speaks just a little stronger. ]
no subject
"Do not kill the messenger." That is what even I know. If I send a letter laced with my blood, it would most definitely get the messenger killed. [ He giggles, mouth closed but lips curl up into a smile. ] I would have liked to see what would have happened if you touched it, though. [ His eyes lift up towards the sky. ] Our magic does not mix well. His is very old, but mine is... [ He squints at a cloud, tilting his head. ]
But no magic ever mixes well with others. They don't like to play well with one another. [ A click of his tongue. ] You're already marked and so if I successfully marked you... I may end up being scolded for it? [ His voice lifts as he turns the statement into a question. He tilts his head the other way, eyes still focusing on a cloud's shape. ]
If I was scolded, would your heart feel lighter in your chest? Or would it sink into your stomach? [ Mitsuhide smiles. It is filled with a sickness that cannot be described. ]
But you had a question for me... could you be more specific with it? "What do I mean by this." I have a lot of reasons and a lot of "this." So if you could narrow it down... I will answer your question.
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[ None of this bodes well.
This talk about and these signs of blood-laced letters bound with magic. This talk of murderous messengers, of scolding. This talk of mixing magic. And why is this bastard fuck talking about the Outsider. Daud feels himself turning cold, a little nauseous at the core. Feels his shoulders gathering into tension
'I would have liked to see what would have happened if you touched it.' 'If I successfully marked you.' 'What would have happened if you touched it.' 'If I.' 'If I.'
The man means him harm; that much has been clear and is only becoming more evident. What's drawn Mitsuhide's interest is unclear. Whether Mitsuhide wants something specific with Daud is also unclear. And there are plenty of questions to be asked, but one in particular strains to make itself known. When Daud speaks, the words come almost impulsively, a sentiment he can't contain. ]
I have no interest in being marked.
[ Once was enough. Once was more than enough. There's a cold fury - distant but sharp - in his eyes. There's calculation, a moment's pause. ]
You've marked others. [ It's almost a question. ] What marking do you leave.
[ It's one question of many; a place to start. ]
no subject
[ He giggles, shoulders hunching as his hand presses over his mouth to cover up his laughter. Mitsuhide makes a small noise -- thoughtful, amused -- as he pulls his hand away to see that he accidentally smeared his own blood on his face. It only makes him laugh more. ]
Ah, I really forgot how messy that is. I honestly forgot. [ Even though he speaks softer, seemingly talking to himself, his tone is that of a child attempting to convince an adult of a lie. Lilting, obviously deceptive to the point it is laughable. But once more, he is the only one laughing. ]
Ah? Nothing that can be seen. [ He lifts his hand to wave it, brushing away the question. ] The body is already ... [ His head turns slightly like he hears something behind him. His gaze becomes distant as his mouth parts just a little. ]
The marks I leave are upon the soul. Yes, it is beyond the flesh. Far beyond it. You have seen it already, haven't you? [ He returns his gaze back to Daud, lips pressed together like he may start laughing again soon. ] Those skulls. They were once living men. They had to be! You can't just summon a skull from nothing! Did you think I did? You are so silly!
[ His head is thrown back to laugh at the very idea that there are just headless abominations that he can call upon. ] The body comes along later. But I don't do much until the body is dead. It isn't nice to. Not nice at all. So, I just give the spirit reason. After all, every spirit has a little bit of madness in it.
[ He smiles. ] Once their celebration is over, they can join the others. It would be sad, after all, if they were all by themselves. Don't you agree? Very sad, indeed. I am not so cruel as to discard them once their bodies have been hacked to pieces. Right? You agree that would be rude, right?
[ Indeed, it is in his mind just a little curse to drive the soul mad. In its madness, it may end up with the body being torn apart by those that wish to stop bloodshed. Sometimes, the person can break out of it themselves. Sometimes, others are able to shake them out of their madness. But to those whose bodies become ruined and bloody messes, he will happily collect what remains. ]
doto!daud + human!outsider
Even now, after all of his time spent watching humanity and the unfathomable choices they made, the Outsider found that he could still be surprised not just by the cruelty that could be found in the depths of hearts, but the kindness and compassion.
Stepping into the sunlight that day had the same effect on him, sheering into his eyes, his bones, his very soul. Even now, months after he’d been reborn yet again ( and wasn’t that strange, to measure things by hours and days instead of by decades and centuries? ), he was still getting used to everything. The noise. The sun. The people.
Most distressing was that instead of being a slave to the Void ( which still calls to him in his sleep, black waves beating against the cliffs of his mind ), instead now he was other forces that call him. Sleep, eating, and a myriad of other functions he had never had to dwell upon. Needs that needed coin to keep up with, so he’d made his way to Corvo and the Empress. Knowledge in exchange for their patronage, or perhaps, their patronage for his silence. Either way, the journey had taken longer than a brief jaunt through dreams, and it had left him tired, in need of a safe haven and someone who he could trust to watch his body while he dreamt.
Finding Daud was easy if one knew where to look, and even with only the faintest of faint traces of his magic still clinging to him, the Outsider could find him blindfolded and from a different continent. In his old age, Daud had settled in, become less active. He had entered into the stage where men regretted their youth and while some would have died nestled in those regrets, Daud was still actively interesting.
Whether it was because of Billie Lurk’s interference or Daud’s own conscience catching up with him, he fed him and allowed him to stay when he turned up, even if he complained the whole time. Once the complaints of his stomach have grown too loud to ignore, he made his way down the side of the building, careful and light, with a small measure of clumsiness. He’s still not used to having to physically move to go from place to place, instead used to just willing it and being there, as easy as a fish through water.]
Daud.
[The greeting was mild as he opened up the window to slide into Daud’s newest base of operations, exits a necessity now that blinking out of trouble was no longer a possibility.]
It’s been too long. How have you been these past few months I’ve been gone?
[’Still choking on regret and blaming others for your choices?’ Was just on the tip of his tongue, but the question is there in the way he canted his head, but he was learning now to keep some of his thoughts to himself.]
no subject
Daud feels his jaw tense, teeth gritting tight. The little bastard would show up. The little bastard would. And really, Daud only has himself to blame.
They’d traveled to the Void together, he and Billie. Her leading the way with her artifacts, he half-dead and growing worse, wavering just on the edge of consciousness. Close enough to death to register the bastard’s name. Liminal enough to speak that name. And just coherent enough to recognize the sense in Billie’s argument and the ardency of her plea for life; willing to speak the Outsider’s name for her, if not for himself.
He’d spoken, felt the world grow cold; knew nothing until he awakened days later in Billie’s care, away from the Void and aware that the Outsider walked free. Billie couldn’t say where the black-eyed bastard had gone; only that he’d stumbled off alone. That she planned to seek him out once Daud was less unwell.
Without the Outsider’s Void-caught presence, the Mark on Daud’s hand sat useless. Though Daud’s connection to the Void had been tenuous since his encounter with the twin-bladed knife, he’d still been able to access its burn. Now, there was nothing of the sort. No feeling of the Void’s electric pull, no way of reaching it.
Something else was clear: In sparing the Outsider’s life, Daud had saved his own, as well. Daud can’t say how it happened - had never understood why the twin-bladed knife impacted him the way it had, draining his life swift and steady - but when the Outsider was severed from the Void, the drain on Daud’s life had ended, as well. There was no reversing the damage, but he felt stronger than he had in months, less like he was careening toward an end.
It’s been months since he’d spoken the Outsider’s name. Months, even, since Daud last saw the Outsider, lending him a place to sleep, something to eat. Telling himself that for Billie’s sake, he could give the little shit the bare minimum, much as he doesn’t like to see the Outsider, much as he’d be pleased never to see the little shit again. (Which is and isn’t true. Which largely isn’t true. Because even after all these years, after all the bitter rage, Daud’s still drawn to the Outsider. Can’t bring himself to forget the former god or turn him away.)
It’s been months, and now the little shit’s here, expecting shelter and Void knows what else, voice dripping insinuations. It’d be hard not to hear those unspoken questions. Hard not to read the inquiry struck through the bastard’s features. Now Daud’s fingers are curling into a fist, and he makes himself relax his hand; there’s no good making himself too easy to read. ]
You.
What is it.
no subject
[His voice was a strange purr now that the weight of the Void wasn't buzzing behind it, through it. Politely, the Outsider closed the window that he had just crawled through, watching the way that Daud's jaw clenched, how he forced himself to relax. While the Outsider couldn't claim that he still had any of his insights left, couldn't see into the hearts and minds of anyone he so choose anymore, his thousands of years watching humanity hadn't faded from his memory. His observations of Daud in particular, hadn't deserted him either.
Could he push the retired assassin far enough to murder him when he once spared him? Or was the change that the Outsider had seen in Daud since the death of the Empress Jessamine Kaldwin, as traumatizing as the break of a bone, enough to keep his bloodlust at bay? The Outsider was curious to find out.
He crossed the room in a few short strides, stopping only when he was two steps away from Daud, mouth curling up slightly into a smile. It could have been fond or spiteful, it was hard to tell.]
Even without my Mark, we are bound together, you and I. Who else can say they know my true name?
[It was likely he could have gone on longer, and had before, but his stomach grumbled again, loudly.]
no subject
It's bullshit, of course. Having spoken the Outsider's name doesn't tie him to the little shit. Shouldn't, or at least it isn't what Daud wants and isn't anything he'd anticipated (he tells himself; it's easiest to believe). What had happened is past, and shouldn't resonate into the present. Shouldn't leave him compelled to deal with the Outsider.
He doesn't owe the bastard anything.
In fact, it's the Outsider who owes him. Owes him for having spared the bastard's sad excuse for a life. Owes him for the curse he'd burned across Daud's hand. Owes him for the judgment, the goading. Owes him for the expectations, the promises of greatness. Owes him for all those years of silence.
And yet, Daud doesn't direct him to the door. And yet, he only watches the all-too-human Outsider steadily, wearily. ]
You came for food.
[ Just fucking say it, you little shit. For once in your centuries-long life, would it hurt to speak directly? ]
no subject
The Outsider sized Daud up quietly for a few moments, his eyes probably not as disconcerting now that they weren't obsidian black, back still ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back.]
Disappointed that this wasn't just a social call? I know you don't get many visitors, these days.
[He asked slyly after a moment, as if in fact, his stomach hadn't just been growling obnoxiously.
Also known as why be straight forward when he can be a little shit? But Daud should be used to it by now.]
no subject
'Daud, he's alone in the world,' Billie had said. 'This is all new for him. Just... If he comes to you, don't turn him away. Please.' And Daud had agreed. For Billie's sake (and at the urging of his own long-grown guilt), he had agreed, and had housed the little shit the last time the Outsider came around. Would do the same this time, because Billie's trust meant something to him. Because they hadn't freed the bastard just to let him wander starving to his death. ]
No.
I know what to expect from you.
And right now I have one more visitor than I'd like.
[ It was true he preferred to keep his own company. There were few enough people in the world he trusted, and few enough whose opinion meant much to him. Then, too, Daud had never been averse to solitude, and age had only increased his appreciation for time spent away from others. (It was easier not to dwell on certain aspects of the past that way. Easier not to find himself confronted with remnants of the man he was.) ]
no subject
He had tried to ask Billie Lurk, not too long after he had been freed, why she had done it, but he had never gotten a straight answer out of her. Perhaps it was a taste of his own medicine, or maybe both of these assassins who were so used to killing, didn't know the reason to why they had spared his life.
Nonplussed, the Outsider turned on his heel instead and started towards the cabinets, digging through the food rations and arranging them carelessly into piles of what he would eat and what he wouldn't.]
And what expectations are those, Daud? I'm interested to know what sort of opinions you have of me now that you've remade me.
[He paused, frowning at a can of jellied hagfish, trying to decide whether he wanted to eat this or if he should put it into the trash where it belonged. Corvo and his current Empress Kaldwin had better food, perhaps he should have stayed there longer.]
no subject
[ 'Remake you,' only there was an argument to be made that he did precisely that. Spoke the bastard's name and so ushered him into the world anew. There was responsibility behind what he'd done. All that talk about consequences, the lessons he'd half-learned so long ago, swam back into his head and left him thinking that this was his own fault, after all. He'd set out to change things. And hadn't he done just that?
Maybe he should have killed the bastard. Withstood Billie's arguments and persuaded her to drive the twin-bladed knife through the Outsider's long-chilled heart.
And there the little shit goes, making himself at home and and sifting through Daud's store of carefully organized food. Or, okay, not carefully organized. More like haphazardly stacked or strewn on shelves. Still, he knows where everything is. Where everything was, until the Outsider got his hands on it. ]
I expect you're the same as you ever were. Disappearing when it suits you. Stopping in when you want food or entertainment. A laugh at the old man who broke his life into pieces for you.
[ His jaw's clenching again (what he said is true and isn't true at all, and he knows it), and he refocuses his attention, scans the Outsider's tidy piles of tins. ]
The food isn't to your liking.
[ There might be a smirk in his voice. Between years holed up in ruined buildings as an assassin and years of ceaseless travel in exile, Daud had learned to live off whatever rations he could scrape together. He's beginning to gather that the Outsider's developed more particular tastes. Well. Maybe the little bastard'll learn there's nothing for him here. Leave Daud in glorious silence.
(Daud isn't sure he'd want that, really. Isn't sure he'd be glad to see the Outsider go for good.) ]
no subject
He had spared the Outsider, but now he regretted. Fascinating.
But he could do without all the blame that was laid at his feet. ( He wasn't going to disagree with the rest. )]
Have I ever laughed at you, Daud?
[Mocked him plenty, disapproved of some of his choices, or found himself growing bored with him, perhaps. But laughter was a new thing, something he still didn't understand. It was a step above smiling, which he had never felt like doing before, but physical bodies were responsive in ways that the Outsider hadn't realized. ]
How long will it take you to realize it was never for me you did all of those things for?
[It was mostly to kill the smirk, and pointedly, he opened up the can of hagfish. And because he could, he took a seat on the counter among the throne of cans, picking at the jelly with his fingers and trying not to grimace.]
I'll get better food tomorrow. Do you have any requests?
[Look at him being generous despite your terrible hospitality, Daud.]
for ain
After everything he’s done, everything he’s set in motion and allowed to happen, always sitting back in sneering silence, he has to be stopped. And much as Daud would rather fade away, much as he’d rather sink into some quiet of his own (he tells himself; he feels is true), he knows he has to be the one to carry out the job. It’s the least he can do, after the damage he’d inflicted upon Dunwall. It’s the least anyone could do, knowing what the bastard of a god is capable of.
For months, Daud’s been following lead after instinctive query after lead, seeking information that might lead him toward a way of ending the black-eyed bastard. Seeking information that might lead him into the Void, information that might produce a weapon capable of striking down a god. Right now, that information has led him to a man by the name of Eustace Cunningham.
Cunningham’s tangled up in the occult, holds connections to several clandestine groups, though his loyalty and primary focus is to a minor cult whose members call themselves the Void Shifters. As far as Daud’s gathered, the group aims their efforts toward establishing a new god within the Void. Unleashing some new deity in order to harness the new god’s powers.
It’s absurd, of course, but what cult doesn’t veer ridiculous? In the end, what they want to do matters little to Daud; he’s concerned only with the information Cunningham can offer. Concerned only with following Cunningham’s information-to-be up the chain leading toward the black-eyed bastard. It’s thus that a particular twilight finds him heading toward a glen in some far-flung corner of Gristol, toward the location where he’d been told he’d meet Cunningham.
When he reaches the glen, what he finds stops him cold, fingers shifting their grip on his blade. He’d come knowing there might be some minor scuffle. But this…
It’s a bloodbath. A scattering of mutilated bodies dropped haphazardly around a carefully constructed series of lines and whalebone runes, burned powder strewn about in patterns. It’s a ritual site; something was supposed to happen here. Hard to say what, though the altar in the middle - the altar against which is propped a young man, scarcely more than a boy - lends suggestions.
Whatever was meant to happen here seems to have gone awry. The boy seems to be alive. The rest - including a corpse that looks suspiciously like Eustace Cunningham, his hand gripping an intricate blade - are cold and slashed through, slumped in seeping pools of blood. Eustace Cunningham is dead. Eustace Cunningham is dead.
By the Void. By the fucking Void what happened here, and how is he too late? Wasn’t he supposed to find the man alive and well and ready to be made to talk? What is he going to do without Cunningham?
It’s a mess. Daud glowers at the scene, a man in his late fifties with hair going silver, a tell-tale scar gashed down the right side of his face. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. This isn’t right, at all. ]
What is this.
[ The words are spoken mostly to himself, though he glances at the boy, never once releasing the grip on his sword, ready lest some new danger should present itself. ]
no subject
He thinks he hears something. The roll of music that subsumes beyond the air, a ripple in the fabric of space itself from unseen whales singing. There is no light, no warmth - yet the chill is comforting, as if it had always been there. Always, laying latent in the dreams that followed his sleeping mind, the shadow of a graceful presence. Who is he? Why is he here? None of that really matters within the dreams of a deep sea. Time is without end. Until....
Lancets of light filter in from all directions, as if the ocean were a sphere instead of an endless plain. They prick and pierce at the darkness, a hush falling over the song. Bubbles of air intrude into the serenity of the void, until....
... until consciousness breaches as if a whale from water, and he is greeted with the momentary vision of a sun burning within a deep, empty darkness.
The youth is unclothed from the waist up, and previously invisible runes flicker into green across his body. Nothing else happens, though. No extradimensional intrusion, only the slight shift of the youth's body against cold stone as the last vestiges of a ritual trance is purged from his body.
What is this.
A voice. Cold, but unlike the waters of the void; a jolt of ice that passes down his spine. The youth opens his eyes - green, the same hue as the music that is painted across his skin.
He struggles to find his voice - a human voice, not the voice of the song in his dreams. ]
What is this....?
[ Right back at you, buddy. ]
for the outsider.
[ Mitsuhide has the same dream for countless years. It is one of fire, of blood, and of madness. It is of the night he killed his lord and master. Nobunaga was the one that shattered him into the wretch that he is now. Slowly, viciously, cruelly; his lord wore down the person known as Mitsuhide until he became like broken glass filling a paper-thing bag -- the container is ruined and can never be useful to anyone; the object the glass once was can never reshape itself into anything whole again.
To say that he killed his lord out of hatred would be a shallow understanding. To say that he killed his lord out of love would be a hollow understanding.
But what is known is a piece of himself will never leave that night. A piece of himself will never recover from his choice. And so, he relives it over and over. As punishment? As reward? It is difficult to say, as even he isn't certain. He merely lives the memory in dreams, but now he walks out of his room to see a vast, empty space filled with black.
It feels endless. It feels old. It feels familiar. ]
I had wondered if you would come to speak with me. I had wondered a lot about you, if I am honest, but not the same wondering that they have about you. [ He speaks to the empty space, as his head tilts slightly. He tilts his head back to look up -- his lips curl into a smile at the swirling black above him. As above, so it is below. ] Shall I share my thoughts, even though you may know them?
[ A beat. ] I shall. [ Pulling his gaze from looking above, he looks ahead of him into the black, noting the whale with its bleeding mouth as it swims past with a smile. ] Might this Mitsuhide ask... what is the shape of your hatred? What is the shape of your despair? What is the shape of your love? I am curious as to what it is. But ... do you understand what I mean? Perhaps? Perhaps. I shall use a mutual acquaintance.
[ His eyes narrow on the shadows moving in the dark -- are they shadows? ] When I think of Daud, I can see it. His anger and hatred is burning bright right here. [ He rests his hand over his chest -- and he spreads his fingers. ] It bursts from within him. Violent, sudden, purposeful. He feels more alive in it, and he hates it because all fire burns in ways we don't want.
The shape of his love is here. [ He lifts his hand to touch his own forehead. ] He holds all his thoughts right here. Precious, secure, and unsullied. He keeps it here and ensures no one -- not even himself -- ruins it. Sometimes, it slips. [ His fingers gently touch his mouth. ] It briefly comes here. But only briefly. Because as soon as he says it, it is no longer safe.
His despair ... oh, his despair... [ He holds his hands, rubbing his knuckles as he looks down at his open palms. ] The shape of it is here. In his own hands. Yet he does not recognize it. Unfortunate, so very unfortunate. [ Lowering his hands, he continues: ] And so, now that I tell you... I ask you... where is your happiness? Where is your love? Where is your despair? Can you recognize the shape of it? Can you recognize where it is, anymore?
[ His head tilts. ] I wonder...