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. ]
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. ]