corcorvo-blog

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Daud

“You’re overestimating my employer’s generosity,” Daud said dryly, making no move to shift away from his careless leaning against the bars. “Which I’m starting to think is a habit of yours. Overestimating.”

He let the cigarette fall to the floor and crushed it lightly with the heel of his boot, and his arms folded against the metal of his door. “He’s going to let me simmer in here,” Daud informed him. “Seethe a little. Stew. We left on a bit of a sour note—won’t bore you with the details—but suffice it to say I don’t think he’s chomping at the bit to bust me loose. Probably thinks a little time in a cell to cool me off is just great. Convenient, even.”

He glanced around the cell, his eyes lingering on the various flaws in the design. A loose stone here, a rusted bar there. The cell window led directly to the street, which seemed a vast oversight, but Daud supposed they were used to housing a milder manner of criminal there, and had no need to consider such things like escape routes and subtle flaws. Still, he made conversation. For some reason.

“Lock wouldn’t be hard to pick,” he pointed out, giving the door a demonstrative shake. “They didn’t take my belt, did they? Could use the prong as a pick, if I had a mind. Could use my bootlaces as a ligature, if I had a mind for that too. Tied shirt to break the rusted bar on the window. Loose stone to knock out the good-looking guard and search him for keys. You know, just thinking aloud here. Maybe you could move me to a cell that would give me just a little trouble breaking out of it?”

Somehow, Corvo could believe that of his employer, the famous actor turned viscount, who in his brief acquaintance of the man, imparted a contemptible sort of frivolity in all that he did, and a pettifogging possessiveness of the young man in his employ. He remembered with a tentative exactitude, the way the man, grey beyond his years, had raked his eyes down Daud’s form, loathe to part from him, even with the promise of a girl in a garden, waiting for him like snare amongst the brambles.

But did that explain his desire to be free, at the cost of his own reputation and infamy? Or was that challenge in his explanations, of all the ways he could thwart Corvo and his men, for Corvo himself? For some unexplained enmity that should not have existed, if he had meant as little to him as he’d implied in his elegant double speak? Or was Corvo once more only an easy mark to redirect his personal frustrations upon?

It hardly mattered, when every one of those potentialities were hateful to him.

He listened, to every possibility Daud posed and knew beyond certainty that his prisoner was capable of every single one. And he attempted to keep his composure as best he could.

“Have a seat, Mr Daud,” he managed to repeat calmly, despite the crooked smile that belied his frustration. His hands never left their disciplined clasp behind his back. “We’ve allowed you the liberty of freedom within your cell. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t apply the fetters we ought to have, if not for the respect administration had for your employer.” He reached for the ring of heavy iron keys hooked within his belt. “It’s your choice. To give me reason to regret it, or not, sir.”

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Ok it’s Daud again. He isn’t just a simple game character HE IS DAUD! The one and only Master Assassin. And you know …. “Nobody wants an enemy like Daud”.

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“The urge to destroy is also a creative urge.”

— Pablo Picasso 

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Daud

“Oh, don’t count on that,” Daud disagreed, but his tone was mild, like was discussing the weather. “Haven’t tested the durability of this cell just yet. If the guard cycle is any indication, though, I’ll be out of here by sun up.”

He exhaled a stream of smoke directly into Corvo’s face with no change of expression, then flicked the ash off the tip to let it fall to the damp stone of the floor. “As for the charges,” he began. “Guess I got a little sloppy, didn’t I? Think it was just a misunderstanding. I’m sure my employer can sort it out when he gets here.” As he took another drag, he added beneath his breath, “However long that takes.”

Now that Daud allowed himself another, more critical once over of his captor, he could see Corvo still had not made it a habit to learn the benefits of a daily hair combing and a shave. Daud had rather thought that maybe his lax appearance had been the culmination of the party, but it seemed Corvo reveled in his unkemptness, even while at work. It was a sharp contrast to his own clothes—still stark and smooth even in the confines of his cell—and to the clean cut of his own jaw. He scoffed through his teeth, but made no mention of it otherwise.

“So why does the duke let his golden boy slum it in the cells?” he asked, and there may have been a hint of a teasing light in his eyes. “As I recall, your duties were strictly related to dancing and giving tours to famous, pompous actors. Oh, and one garden tour with the aforementioned actor’s bodyguard.” He reached over to flick the topmost button of Corvo’s shirt with a blithe hand. “What a bilge rat he was, right? Didn’t even stick around for a smoke after.”

Corvo did not blink at the caliginous assault, did not waver, did not indicate any displeasure at the insouciant display, save for lowering his gaze in an expression of modest reserve. But the breath he took filled his lungs with the nuanced spicy-sweetness of his smoke, chasing it, taking it within him to remember bodily the ghost of his breath against his cheek, the scent of his skin sweetened with the fraicheur of mint, the earthiness of rosemary, the warmth that radiated from his own cheek after the exertion of the dance. The dance that portended too many things to not end in a furtive tumble in the garden. The dance Corvo chose willfully never to forget.

“Oh, I’m sure he’d like me to think ill of him,” Corvo agreed simply, the concession delivered with the dismissive assurance of certainty. “Which is exactly why I intend to remember him with for fondness than he’d prefer.” Corvo let his dark eyes sweep down Daud’s frame, as appreciative, as exploratory as a caress. 

“As for your question,” he went on, changing the subject as cheerily as he might. “This city is under the jurisdiction of the Duke, and as a soldier in his employ, I go where I am stationed. I keep his peace, wherever he may choose to send me. In that vein, I would advise you not to attempt any escape. It’s a poor gamble. I know the man that retains you, and it would be very little hardship at all to find your whereabouts. I would not hesitate to exhaust my resources in pursuit of you.”

He smiled, wide and knowing then. “Perhaps you should have a seat, Mr. Daud. Your employer will not allow you to rot here until sun-up. You should take your repose. I’ll feel better about it if you do. And hands where I can see them. If you please.” He let a beat pass. “I don’t want to have to come in there.”  

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[daud voice] In dunwall, things always end up tangled like a bag of snakes… except for these pythons. /flexes arms/

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@brandedknife

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well well well

@corcorvo

Daud didn’t much appreciate the handling he was given as he was escorted to his cell, but Serkonan prisons weren’t known for radiating hospitality. Even with the esteem of the actor’s employ, they still insisted on the required bail. Which, for trespassing on a noble’s estate, amounted to about 500 coins. Of course, he hadn’t been trespassing. He had been standing watch and creating a distraction while the actor busied himself with the noble’s young wife, but that was not an alibi he could offer to the city watch. For obvious reasons.

So he forfeited his weapons and coat and personal effects, leaving him down to his trousers and undershirt as he was escorted to his grey, unassuming cell. He was informed that he could be released when his employer paid his bail, given a pack of cigarettes, and left to his own devices.

The night was late, and as he heard the sound of steps down the cell-lined hall, he wondered what poor manner of man had been roped into sitting watch of his captivity. But when he came into view, Daud had to admit it wasn’t the manner of man he expected.

“Well,” he said, rising from his makeshift bench-bed to lean against the bars of his cell door. “Guess they’re scrambling for hands if they’re asking the likes of you to play babysitter.”

The ember crackled in his cigarette, bathing his face in dim light as it flared with the pull. “What are you doing here, Attano?” he asked finally, letting smoke spill from his teeth. “Gotta be some brothel where your talents would be put to better use.”

He’d hardly gotten past the threshold of the jail’s office when the night’s intake paperwork was slapped unceremoniously into his chest by whatever inutile blaggard he was relieving at present, who was more interested in disappearing into the obscurity of the dark between the alleyways than the entails of a job meant to be forgotten in what lay in the bottom of his cups. 

That was fine was Corvo. He’d become accustomed to picking up the slack of his seniors in addition to the necessities of his own office. It kept the quotidian matters running smoothly and his coworkers happy, so it was no hardship for him to accomplish that. For the good of the Guard. 

It was an encouraging and mollifying maxim.

Leafing through the forms as he logged the names and offenses into the ledger, there were a fair few names he recognized: John Beringer, public intoxication; Jane Mallory, petty thievery; Nathaniel Rumer, solicitation. His gaze hitched upon the unusual single name amongst the stack: Daud. But the orthography did not lend itself to the color of the name, when he’d heard it once upon a time through a haze of wine warm on the tongue, itinerant melodies sung on strings and the rush of a gambol punctuated with laughter. 

It still did not incite any recall, when he ambled down the stone stairs to the hold where the transient prisoners were kept, until an effluvium of clove-scented smoke accosted him, along with the memory of mint and rosemary and the frame of strong arms. 

But whatever redimancy existed in that moment of realization was cut short with the sound of his voice, taunting him, and the memory of Daud practically fleeing into the obscurity of the hedge maze. 

“I should be flattered,” Corvo said darkly, situating himself before the bars that separated them, his hands clasped behind him in militaristic aplomb, as he assumed a more formal posture. “That you might remember me best for my talents in lovemaking. We did dance quite a bit. And drink. And tell stories. And if that’s what stood out in your recollection of me, I suppose I can’t be too angry.” 

There was amusement in the way his eyes dragged down Daud’s half supine form, the shape of his lips as he turned them up to blow a column of smoke into the air, the proud tilt of his chin as he did so, the patrician curl of his thick fingers where he held his cigarette, and most notably the gape of his shirt, where the rugged chisel of his chest was bared. 

“Trespassing,” he enunciated, letting the weight of the word hang in the silence betwixt them for a moment. “I find that telling, that you happened to be brought in for that. You are, as I remember, very good at making your escapes. You were impossible to locate after our .. turn .. in the garden. I confess it’s an intriguing prospect, to have you in an inavertible state. Can’t escape now, Daud.”

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In the schoolyard, the other children would marvel at his quick hands. One day, a man came for young Daud, and led him away.

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Even if Dunwall burns to the ground, one corner of the Empire will still know your story.

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His hands do violence. But there is a different dream in his heart.

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beloved Daud 

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“ᴬᶰᵈ ᵃ ᶜᵒᵐᵖˡᵉᵗᵉ ᵐᵃᵈᵐᵃᶰˑ ᵞᵒᵘ'ᵈ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵇᵉ ᶜᵒʳᵛᵒ˒ ᶤᶰ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ʷᵒʳᵈˢˑ”

“ᴵ ᵍʳᵉʷ ᵘᵖ ʷᶤᵗʰ ᵗʰᶤˢ ᵇʳᵒᵏᵉᶰ ˢᵏʸˡᶤᶰᵉ˒ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵘᵗᵉᵈ ᶜᵒˡᵒʳˢ ᵃᶰᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵃʸ ᵗʰᵉ ˡᶤᵍʰᵗ ᶠᵃˡˡˢˑ ᴵᵗ'ˢ ᴰᵘᶰʷᵃˡˡ˒ ᵇᵘᵗ ᶤᵗ'ˢ ᶰᵒᵗˑ ᴴᵃᵛᵉ ᴵ ᶜʰᵃᶰᵍᵉᵈ˒ ᵒʳ ᵈᵒᵉˢ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰᶤᶰᵍ ʲᵘˢᵗ ˡᵒᵒᵏ ᵈᶤᶠᶠᵉʳᵉᶰᵗ ʷʰᵉᶰ ʸᵒᵘ'ʳᵉ ᶰᵒᵗ ʷᵉᵃʳᶤᶰᵍ ᵃ ᶜʳᵒʷᶰˀ”