#this all started when I was thinking about human outsider being taken in by corvo and emily and as he takes his clothes off for a bath

[no-light-left-on]

considering the historical influences in the fashion of Dishonored (and the extent of nsfw fanfiction this fandom has) I’ve been thinking about the layers that would be, realistically, part of the daily dress

which means: dishonored seems to honour the importance of a vest in a properly dressed gentleman’s or lady’s wardrobe

vests were, and I cannot stress this enough, a mandatory part of an outfit, to the point of men wearing only vests if they could not afford a fully tailored suit (trousers + vest + jacket) and a new shirt and opting to only wear a fake collar under the vest for the illusion of a full outfit

shirts were underwear, so to speak. there were no occasions in ‘polite society‘ where one could only wear a shirt without a vest on top.

this is something we see mirrored in both dishonored games, though the style of the vests and clothing have somewhat changed, they still follow the same rules of vests worn with every outfit, as far as we can tell. (we could argue that Jessamine is not wearing one, or that some higher class women aren’t wearing vests under their buttoned up jackets, but since we don’t really see underneath we can’t judge.)

we see the vests be worn even by the Whalers in the first game (which in itself brings up many questions. are whalers, the actual whalers that capture and kill whales, held in high enough regard by the society that they made a vest part of their uniform? or is it merely something that is worn by all? something that every citizen of sound mind would don, were they to leave their house?)

there are a few exceptions to this, of course, but this whole thing came to be by asking a simple question

does the Outsider wear a vest under his leather jacket?

now, in the first game, his jacket is unbuttoned just enough for us to get a good enough peek at what lies beneath. which is to say: there is no hint of a vest underneath. judging by the vests in the first game, the fashion was that the vest would go up high, often covering collarbones or even having a standing collar. what we see on the Outsider is just... an unbuttoned shirt

it’s much the same in the second game, even if we examine his final concept art, his outfit consists of a shirt (more or less underwear) with most of the top buttons unbuttoned, and a jacket on top. no hint of a vest underneath

what I’m trying to say is that the Outsider is a slut

[ratplagues]

🔥 any dishonored thing of ur choosing -deathoftheoutsider

wah okay!! i will talk a bit about the outsider and void then..i dont really wanna frame it as a Hot Take bc i have no interest in starting shit or whatever like ill interact with whatever i want to in this fandom and ignore the rest and everyone else is free to do the same but.

I do not think The Outsider is a “character” in the conventional sense, much less that it does his character or the allegory he wields any justice to be shipped with anyone in the series (at least without seriously considering the implications and framing it in a way that completes the allegory. more on this later)

the outsider and his void are an allegory for Otherness; i’m namely gonna frame it as queerness and neurodiversity, but really anything could fit as long as it’s about you feeling seen as a marginalized and othered person. he is written to represent this allegory, not to be a person with a satisfying narrative arc or dimensions. this is why some people feel that he lacks depth-- he’s not supposed to have depth compared to others in the series, he’s mostly a vehicle for what he represents, and is supposed to be easy to identify with or recognize.

he was born to a life of hardship, suffered at the hands of the rich and powerful, was ignored, cast out, etc. etc. a familiar story. poor, queer, nd, really whatever you wanna frame it as. he was a nobody outcast. in comes the envisioned, they pick him to serve as their martyr and idol without his permission. he then had his name cut away and forgotten, and was thrust onto a pedestal to spend the rest of eternity being worshipped by other outcasts who had suffered at the same hands he had. he has something greatly in common with those who worship him, including the very people who stripped his mortality from him in the first place, but because of this shared hardship (and nothing else), his own autonomous personhood was disregarded completely in favor of The Community needing someone Just Like Them to idolize. if this sounds familiar, that’s because it should!!

his humanity was taken from him, and in his place, an idol was created. his human body is frozen in stone in the center of the void-- retired. out of commission. no longer needed. he was immortalized, transcended. this is traditionally desired, although dishonored is trying to convince you that it is not actually desirable. in the age of internet content creation, you can be immortalized without even being present, without knowing about it. you become what you can do for other people, and what you cannot. people fall in love with an idea of you, the idea of you being like them, and other people come to hate you deeply without even knowing you. people came to hate the outsider more deeply than he ever had been when he was human-- he wasn’t seen when he was human. a pedestal only helps you to be seen. the outsider had the choice made for him to achieve immortality in exchange for the simple joys of being un-known.

he spends all of doto trying to convey this idea to billie through the hollows:

"There is freedom in being hated. There is license in being cast out. Some learn this lesson a little too well."  "These people lay their thoughts, their petty wants, their murderous desires in front of me to witness. I cannot turn away." "We carry what was done to us through the rest of our endless days. No one asked if we wanted it." (i like this one. he speaks for the community-- this is a shared experience, one everyone can recognize. however, as a Queer Figure, he never asked for this. he never asked to be immortalized. i like the double meaning here)

not to mention, the entire extent of the outsider’s Sole ability and influence on the real world is to “choose” people and give them untold power over others. this is a fun ironic twist on what marginalized groups endure from powerful people, (dishonored is largely about power imbalances and socioeconomic hierarchies) but it’s also fun to think about in the context of the role model/fan framing-- so many worshippers give their lives to be “chosen” by him. it’s easily framed as an exaggeration of otherwise very real power imbalances and often the flagrant breaching of boundaries existing between creators and fans.

and on the subject of the VOID...ohht he void.....

the void should be a haven for queer folks. for nd folks. it’s wanted by so many to be a safe space, it should be, it’s the Other World! it’s renounced by the abbey, crusaded against, even. but it isn’t. it’s just this limitless, eons-old horizon that hungers and starves for something to fill it. if the outsider is the lament of queer idolatry, the void is the lament of queer Hunger. it is roaming, and restless. it does not belong to the outsider; the outsider cannot survive without it. it’s the desire to belong, not a place of belonging.

the void craves this idol, this outsider-- i, for one, have often experienced hunger for a truly moral and just role model, someone to make the world Right, and i know this is another shared feeling. those who worship the outsider, who drive themselves mad trying to see him or be chosen by him, are suffering from this idol hunger. you see this in a lot of queer and nd kids and young adults. i grew up just having my life and interests like, punctuated by different fixations on different people that i didn’t know at all, only fell in love with the idea of. it happens a lot.

there’s a couple more doto quotes that really highlight this for me:

"They carve my mark into the old bones bleached by the sun. They carve my mark into their skin. They learn true hunger in the Void." "All these charms, these runes and fetid offerings on shrines made for me, will be nothing more than objects worn of meaning. Bones and dead things, thrown into the dirt."

“They learn true hunger in the Void.” is something that i wanna touch on real quick. people can spend their lives obsessing over the idea of what they think the void will cure for them, will fix in their lives, only to find out that it’s just a hollow manifestation of the emptiness they’ve felt all their lives. it’s not the needs met, but the need itself. you have to make the home, it doesn’t already exist and you can’t fucking run to it. it is heartbreaking, frustrating, one of the bleakest messages i’ve ever encountered in a game, but i’ve never felt more seen. by submitting to these ideas, the idea of a perfect unhuman human and the idea of a perfect otherworldly home, you are surrendering your humanity. you’re not only being transformed by the powers gained (if they are gained), you’re essentially dissolving with hunger after never having these needs met. you see so many people in these games whittling themselves down to nothing but base need. empty apartments occupied only by shrines, sometimes containing their corpses. journals of people dedicating their lives to the worship of the outsider, always ending darkly.  "I will find this empty place. Somehow the key to open the Void will fall into my hands. In time, I will learn the secret and he will call to me as he called to her."

not to mention The New Envisioned-- prolonged exposure to the void will always, without fail, turn a human into silver void stone. these creatures can no longer interact with or acknowledge the mortal world. they have surrendered themselves to hunger, and cannot be saved. this is celebrated by the cult, honored by them, even. i honestly like....i pity them, and i hate them, and i recognize that i’ve been those people, lmao. when i was at my worst as a teenager, i wasnt so much a person as i was just a shell full of hunger and heartbreak. my personality was defined by who i was a fan of. i think i definitely was Less Human then. the cult of the outsider is a universal experience!!

dishonored, at its core, is a celebration of humanity. it asks you to celebrate human emotion and weakness despite greed and bigotry. the powers are not to be wanted, they are to be ignored, refused. it is human to hunger, but it is Queer and Divergent to make hunger your life’s meaning, to need to learn the secret, find the key, be chosen and loved and cherished, to be made whole by some perfect thing. to find your humanity in something un-human. dishonored sees all that, mourns it with you, and then asks you to find humanity in each other !! love the spine of your lover, the blood draining down the docks, the pause to stretch languidly in the sun of a work day.

and finally...on the topic of outsider shipping....i dont think that, in his god form, it does him much justice to be shipped with anyone. he’s not much of a person, just a projection of his former self and a vehicle for his allegory as discussed-- im sure he could be shipped like this, but it just isn’t satisfying to me in any way. however, let’s talk a bit about his lethal and nonlethal ending. DOTO asks you to make a choice. is it better to give him an abrupt and merciful ending, after deciding that the fury he’s endured at the hands of others’ famine is too much trauma for any mortal to live with? or will you decide that it’s only fair to give him a chance to live the life he never got to, to return his humanity that was taken without his consent? if you choose to free him from the void, i think you can very very easily make the argument that he can be shipped with corvo, or anyone else that can easily be shipped w/ ppl. he’s finally free to live his life as a queer man, can explore the simple and complex joys of being human with other people, navigate the hills and valleys he never got to before. corvo’s just a nice pick bc 1) experienced human/inexperienced human is good, 2) they know each other, but they don’t. this is a good setup. 3) corvo is an older queer man and uhh you cant convince me otherwise lol! and older queer/younger queer is a self indulgence for me. also corvo is just nice. i think he would enjoy helping the outsider navigate his new humanity.

just some thoughts i have running through my head all hours of the day :) this is really long cuz its a combination of a lot of infodumps from discord lmfao

[xadoheandterra]

Title: Kismet; Lacuna Fandom: Dishonored Chapters: I Characters: Billie Lurk, the Outsider, Daud, Corvo Attano Tags: Time Travel, Void-fuckery, Post Death of the Outsider, WIP, Panic Attacks, Trauma, AU, Present Dishonored 1 Summary: He felt twisted sick, the air refused to stay in his lungs and his throat burned fiercely. He couldn't speak when for so long all he had were his words. He couldn't feel aside from cold familiarity that had been his life for so long...and his name--he knew it, it was there in the tip of his tongue, on the edge of his thoughts, and yet it was gone again. Taken from him. Stolen, yet not. The Void churned within him, but it was wrong. He hadn't felt like this in two years. He hadn't--this was all wrong. The Outsider was dead; he wasn't the Outsider anymore. Wasn't he?

Billie Lurk wakes up on her bed in the old Commerce Building ten days before her exile from the Whalers. She has a void eye and a void arm that only she can see, memories of events that haven't happened, powers she can't explain, and a connection to a boy who had once been an Eldritch whale deity whose name she knew but cannot speak, cannot think. Something had gone horribly wrong and the path of destiny irrevocably changed.

Corvo rested his back against the tower rooftop, lips pressed together as he listened to Emily make faint noises in her sleep. A part of him wanted to go into the room, to open the door and grab her and tell her it was okay now. He wanted to hold her close and fight back the nightmares that plagued her--but at the same time his stomach churned and his throat tightened and he started to panic. It's been almost seven months now--seven months since that day at the gazebo, since the blade pierced through Jessamine and the way the assassins clung to Emily--and how he could do nothing, suspended in the air by black magic--useless.

Tiredly Corvo scrubbed a hand down his face and turned his gaze up toward the sky. He raised his left hand and stared at the Mark there--the black lines so stark against the back of his hand. He blinked his eyes, and his vision switched to the strange void-gaze and he stared at his hand with these new eyes, stared at the way the Mark lit up, bright golden lines of voided light. Another blink and his vision returned to normal. Corvo clenched his fist and looked to the side, lips pressed thin.

Below, Emily's breath hitched and Corvo tilted his gaze downward, vision blinking back into that voided-sight so that he could check in on her--but she settled, shortly, and Corvo let the gaze settle back as he reached for the pen and sheaf of papers from within his pockets. With barely a thought Corvo tilted a knee up to be his temporary writing desk and began to scratch out his own thoughts. It was something he'd taken to in between the 'missions' these so-called Loyalists sent him on. With a grimace Corvo wrote his thoughts, his fears--everything.

For a while there was only the sound of his pen scratching against the papers, of the shuffle of the papers across his knees, and the faint sound of Emily's soft sounds in her sleep. Corvo wondered what Havelock would have him do next--who would Havelock command him to kill? He clenched the pen tightly as he thought about the Golden Cat, thought about the feel of blood between his fingers as he slit the Pendleton Twins' throats.  For a moment Corvo shuddered, stared at his fingers that looked to be covered in blood--remembered the cold fury in his chest, the sickness that burned within him at the thought of Emily--his daughter--being kept in such a place.

Had they touched her? Had they dared? His thoughts spiraled and Corvo forced himself to take breaths, forced himself to calm. They were dead and Emily was safe. Maybe not well, and maybe not for a while yet, but Corvo would see her there. He would see Burrows pay for it all--pay for what he did to Emily, pay for what he did to Jessamine, for the lies, for daring to even lay a hand on his daughter. The darkness, the cold violence in his heart surged up in his chest and the pen snapped in two between his fingers. Corvo stared blankly as the ink stained his hand, dribbled over his words and blurred them beyond recognition, and then sighed.

I'm sorry, Jess, Corvo thought, bitterly. He learned to control the violence for Jessamine, to direct it, hone it, better it until the violence that was his second nature at least didn't result in everyone who wronged those who cared for dead. He places a hand against his breast, against the Heart the Outsider gave him there, and for a moment he could hear her, hear Jessamine--

You were made for violence, but honed a softer touch....she...loved that about you.

Corvo's eyes burned as he took his hand away from his breast and began to gather up his ink stained papers with ink stained hands. Carefully he bundled them back into the pouches that they were stored in, and then breathed out slowly and focused his attention back toward Emily. Safe, he thought, hand once more to his breast.

She mourns still. That you have not spoken. That you leave her with strangers. She worries that soon she may lose you to the same darkness that she lost her mother. She cannot suffer it. She cannot lose a father too.

A sucked in breath and a shudder wracked Corvo's frame. He wheezed, and his throat burned from even that faint sound, and Corvo closed his eyes with a bitter turn of his lips and his heart crying Oh, Em with words he can't quite say just yet. Tiredly Corvo climbed to his feet, turned to head back to the attic to get at least some rest--who knew when the rest of these so-called Loyalists would demand his attention again, he should at least take an hour of sleep on the cot they'd given him, instead of sitting watch above Emily--and in the distance there was a visceral ripping, tearing, sour-note whale-song that made his Mark burn.

Corvo turned and looked out to the ocean just as a dark shape fell through the a void-shaped tear in the sky and landed into the water with a loud splash. The buzzing made his teeth ache even as it eased, and then faded away all together. With lips pressed close Corvo blinked and let the void-gaze take his eyes even as he began to climb down from the tower and head toward the rocky shoreline. He could see a figure, distantly, struggle in the water. Drowning.

The Mark burned and without thought Corvo took in a breath and moved, between one blink of his eyes to the next he landed in the water, near the struggling figure. He dived down and reached out to grasp in the darkened water, to grab a shoulder that struggled and twisted. He pulled and pulled the stranger up and out of the water, and then blinked back to the shoreline. He let the void settle back out of his gaze, tried to ignore the searing pain that bloomed behind his eyes, and looked to whomever he'd grabbed. He looked and saw--

Impossible.

Corvo's eyes grew wide as he stared down at a young face, dark hair plastered down with water, hands scrambling against a bleeding throat. It was a face he knew, younger, softer, with clear blue Tyvian eyes--but a face he knew. A face he'd seen from only within the Void, normally with the black eyes of a God, but here blue eyes of a Tyvian and--red from his neck, bleeding--blood. The boy looked panicked, stricken, gasping for breath as blood covered his lips and his throat and his hands that struggled--stone creeped up along the side of his face and one eye went dark and then the boy went still, eyes rolled up into the back of his head and Corvo frantically moved to check for a pulse.

A fluttering beat, faint, but there. A human with the face of the Outsider, bleeding out in his arms. Corvo shook himself, grabbed the boy, and ignored the throbbing of his head as he pulled on more of the Void, more of the Mark, and blinked. Piero, he needed Piero. He needed Piero now.

Billie groaned as she woke; her arm throbbed, her eye hurt, but that wasn't anything new. They'd been painful for a while now, ever since Emily came back from Stilton and the dreams started up. The pain had eased when the Outsider grasped her, infused her with the void artifacts that gave her back ties to the Void, a chance to use its eldritch magic once more. It hadn't gone away, still lingering at the edges, but better. Exhausted Billie rubbed at her head as she sat up, exhaustion pulling at her bones. That too was familiar. She'd been tired for a while now; the world going to shit in a giftwrapped basket would do that to anyone, really.

"Your up late."

Billie blinked and raised her head, suddenly stiff and surprised by the familiar voice. She blinked rapidly as she stared at the unmasked, blond faced asshole that was Thomas. Except Thomas looked younger, more fit than he'd been when she last saw him as she hunted down Daud. He lacked the extra scar across his face, hair cropped short as he looked at her with undisguised amusement. He looked--he looked better. Less worn down by the world, by Daud's decisions, by his own guilt.

"Thomas?" Billie murmured, and as sleep further left her she realized that this--this wasn't the bolt-hole she'd taken up residence in, in Tyvia. This wasn't the run down shack with barely standing metal walls that she'd been sleeping in for the past few months. Sure there was water stains, evidence of damage, mold, but it was familiar in that distant, nostalgic memory way. The walls were crumbling, but reinforced despite the damage. Functional. Safe. These were the walls of the Flooded District, of the old Commerce Building in Dunwall. These were the walls the Whaler's had occupied once upon a time, at the height of their power and abilities.

Dunwall, the Flooded District, the Commerce Building--every moment of bitterness and regret in those months after the death of the Empress, how the good times came crashing down with that shit show of a job, and then further tumbled into the gutter heap following Daud's obsession with Delilah and Billie's own obsession that led to her betrayal that led to her fleeing with her life--Billie swallowed heavily and let herself slip into the strange-between world with Foresight. She drifted away from her body, used the Eye, and tried to focus.

This wasn't a Hollow. This wasn't a dream either, because she could see Galia down the hall talking with Rinaldo. Aeolos training with Kent. Daud pacing in his office. There were river krusts outside, bone charms were littered around like candy and even a few of them sang sour-sweet of corruption. Billie let herself snap back to her body and forced down the rise of panic. She wondered were--and then her thoughts caught, stumbled over a name she knows. It was his name and he'd given it to her, a sign of trust and now its gone. Billie forced down the panic at that because--he'd been with her, before she woke here. They'd been together, in Tyvia, looking into the way the world had broken and now she was here and she couldn't even think of a name she knew and Thomas was staring at her.

"Billie?" Thomas asked, stepped into the room, and Billie knew she was beginning to hyperventilate but she couldn't help it because this was the Flooded District, this was Dunwall during the tied-second darkest moment of her life and she couldn't even think of his name and after everything she'd done, all the choices she made, knowing what she knows that terrifies her. "Billie, breath with me," Thomas said, and his voice was steady.

Billie missed Thomas. It'd never been like it was after she'd been exiled from the Whalers. Even when they ran into each other in Karnaca, years later, it hadn't been the same. There'd be a stiff politeness between them, a distance and forced understanding. They knew each other once, were family once, but now were strangers and yet--Thomas said something, asked something about touching and Billie wasn't sure she said anything but Thomas reached out and grasped her, held her close and Billie swallowed heavily and fought back the tears as she tried to breath, tried to quell her beating heart.

As her heart began to calm Billie realized she saw Daud. As her breathing evened out she remembered how he paced his office, just a floor above her. She recalled him in his last moments, white-haired and unable to breath, fading away until his heart gave out, alone on the Dreadful Whale. She hadn't been there, too busy following his directions and hunting down a knife to be there and she regretted it so much. That she hadn't been there with him. She should've been there. She should've--Billie pulled out of Thomas grip and drifted into Foresight, drifted up and dropped a mark, snapped back to herself and then let Displace drag her along the tether to Daud.

Faintly Billie heard Thomas curse, surprised when she left him without a word, but she had to see it. She had to see Daud, she had to know. Was this some cruel dream, some trick of the broken Void? Or was this real, was she here, now, when shit was falling around her and she couldn't comprehend how good she had it. The shards of void-stone shattered around her, coalesced into her shape, and Billie stared at Daud who turned and stared at her in turn, face pulled into a scowl that quickly began to morph into something like concern. He wasn't so old anymore, younger, scarred face and not-quite-going-grey hair cropped short. He'd been pacing, looking over maps and notes and she can see marked off charts--a map of Timsh's estate being the current prominent set of papers splayed out.

"Daud," Billie breathed out, shaken, and she couldn't figure out what Daud's expression was now, except that he took a step forward.

"What happened?" Daud asked, and Billie opened her mouth when Thomas appeared at her side with a transversal, wisps of shadow and smoke coalescing into his form and Billie--Billie almost broke.

"You're here," she said instead, and Daud frowned. 

Thomas must've made some sort of gesture because Daud's face gentled a second later and he took a step forward and said, almost gently, "I'm here."

For a moment Billie struggled with her words, with what she wanted to ask--she glanced to the map. Timsh's estate. Had he gone there, yet? How soon before the Overseer's come to the Flooded District? How soon before her mistakes caught up to her?

Hoarsely Billie asked, "What day is it?"

"The fifteenth of High Cold," Thomas said, just behind and to the left of her. Billie stared at the map. The fifteenth of High Cold; she wracked her memory for when events took place. It was the 25th of High Cold when Billie had been exiled from the Whalers, when Delilah sent Overseer Hume into the Flooded District to hunt down Daud. They were still preparing, gathering intel, about Timsh. Daud hadn't gone to the estate yet. The High Overseer had already changed hands which meant either Emily was with Attano or would soon be with Attano.

It meant Delilah hadn't marked her yet. She'd only did so when it became closer to the assault on their base. It meant Billie had time. She closed her eyes and repeated the date--fifteenth of High Cold. She still couldn't tell if this were a dream or something else; it felt less real. Her eye and her arm throbbed and Billie glanced to her right. It struck her odd that Daud or Thomas hadn't said anything, actually. She looked at her arm, she could see the way the artifact fused at the stump where her elbow would've been. She manipulated the fingers, then glanced to Daud and Thomas again.

"What happened, Billie?" it was Thomas who asked, Daud who looked at her concerned. "Did you hear something? See something?" A flicker of his fingers, and Billie narrowed her eyes at the gesture--something about rats?

"No--" Billie started, then shook her head. "--a dream. I think." She moved her hand again and Daud reached out and grasped it.

"Get me fisher," Daud said, and he rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand but said nothing about it. Billie pulled her hand back even as she heard Thomas disappear in a transversal. "Debrief, Billie." Billie licked her lips, and when she didn't say anything Daud frowned. "Was it the black eyed bastard?"

Billie flinched, pulled away--she'd forgotten for a second Daud's contentious relationship with--how he thought so little of--Billie shook her head and opened her mouth to say no, to say it wasn't--but her voice stole away from her in the say way her thoughts stuttered over where she would normally have his name. Actually it worried her, how she couldn't think it, couldn't speak it--but she knew it. It was like the name had been stolen again, but not quite at the same time. Billie swallowed and turned her head to the side, frowned as she thought about it. She raised her left hand and rubbed against her lips.

How had she woken here, Billie wondered. When they were together in Tyvia--there was a bunk, they'd shared space in the dilapidated shack that they worked out of. Had--whatever happened done something to--if it did she would be furious. They'd grown close, the two of them. She cared for the little boy; he'd been fifteen; a child. No matter how long he'd been a Void Entity after that there was still the scared little boy who lost his name. Who died. Who bled out on a ritual alter as the Void filled him up and froze him and--Billie swallowed, and then reached into herself. Reached for--for that tie between--for what he did that connected them.

Was he here? Was that why she knew the name but couldn't think or say it? Did she even have the arm and the eye or was she just so used to them that she imagined it so? Billie dove into that connection and felt it there--strong, fluttering, terror and in a second Billie snapped back to herself and sucked in a breath. Something was wrong. Something sour-sweet in the tie between her and--and the Outsider. It hurt to think of him as such but he was and wasn't--she was and wasn't too.

"Fuck," Billie hissed between her teeth and then jerked when a new pair of hands touched her and she stared at Fisher who flashed a penlight in her eyes. "Ow, shit, stop that I'm fine!" Billie pulled away.

"Was he talking to you?" Daud said, voice low, dangerous, and Billie looked at him incredulously.

"What?" Billie said. "No, I--" She'd been focused. How long had she been focused. She glanced to Thomas and saw how he fidgeted, worrying his lip between his teeth. Fisher flashed the penlight in her eyes again and she flinched away; Fisher's lips were pressed thin in that worried way the woman got, eyes narrowed in concentration. "Stop that. I'm fine."

"You keep trancing out on us, Billie," Thomas said, voice soft, worried.

"I was thinking," Billie snapped back. "You should try it sometime." Thomas jerked back, surprised.

"Lurk," Daud said, and he used that tone with that name that had Billie standing up straight suddenly at attention. "You will submit to an exam under Fisher."

"Daud I'm fine," Billie tried to assert, but Daud would not be dissuaded. She could tell that from the stubborn set of his jaw and she sighed, heavily. "It was just a dream." When Daud stood taller, sterner, Billie reasserted, "It was just a dream, Daud."

"You will submit for an exam," Daud said, voice low. "I will not have my second compromised."

Billie sucked in a breath through clenched teeth but nodded acquiescence. If anything it would give her more time to think and figure this out because this--something was wrong with it, and she couldn't name what. Her arm hurt. Her eye throbbed. It was wrong.

[flatstarcarcosa]

@autistic-council-spectre

@therailwayarms

OKAY SO, it hit me the other week, like. thematically, right? zuko + regaining honor.........dishonored. hello??? 

but i had to go deeper and holy fuck did i ever??????

so for starters, it’s defs one of those au’s where instead of like a creative split of media, it’s just. “dishonored but the main characters are the atla cast instead of corvo and them”. 

the outsider has taken an interest in our royal fire family. he acts as if the affairs of humans mean nothing to him, but if anyone bothers to do the research, you can see he’s marked others in the family tree. 

azulon, notably, was not marked. 

sozin was, and used the powers of the Mark to start this setting’s take on the 100 year war. i have a background lore HC that he also marks a lot of the ‘airbenders’, and that the concept of an ‘avatar’ is something only they have, and it has to do w/ being marked. (the windblast power is clearly a placeholder for airbending, yfm?)

anyway. 

iroh was marked for a while, secretly. he went from being a normal commander to suddenly The Hero Of The Nation thanks to it, and no one aside from himself, the outsider, and his son knew. 

lu ten’s knowledge of his father’s mark is what got him killed. overseer’s mistakenly thought he was the one with the power due to his knowledge, and they murdered him for it. 

iroh killed about half of those responsible before he realized that not only is it not going to bring his son back, it’s also only going to reinforce the views the overseers have.

he piled his runes and his bone charms at a draped altar and sat in the candle light smelling burning chamomile until the outsider showed himself, and he renounced him. 

he gave up the mark, and the power, and he was the first human to ever do so. 

meanwhile, ozai has been watching his brothers successes from the sidelines and growing ever more frustrated with being unable to match it. 

one night, he awakens to a world balanced on end and awash in blackness, and the outsider taunting him by asking what would you do if you suddenly had the power to achieve your goals? 

he hides his own mark, for a time. he’s unable to completely hide it from ursa, and she is unable to accept it. she is unable to truly accept that the outsider is real and not a children’s fairytale designed to make kids behave, and she agrees not to involve overseers in exchange for ozai ‘banishing’ her and releasing her from a life she never really wanted. (she loved him ((because fuck what the comics say)) yes, and she loves her children moreso, but she never wanted to be royalty.) 

they swear to each other one day, they will reunite. perhaps not as partners, but maybe as free souls. and perhaps friends. 

he promises to care for the children. 

it is the first promise he breaks. 

ozai is plagued by the outsider. 

tortured. 

every time he closes his eyes, the black eyed bastard is there. 

is this all you can do with my gift? he asks. 

you were a dark soul all along, you just needed the proper push, he says. 

ozai suffers for years from exhaustion. he is unable to stop the outsider from visiting his dreams, and when destroying every shrine his soldiers find does not help, he resorts to refusing to sleep. 

it drives him mad, and will eventually lead to his downfall. 

at the height of his father’s madness, zuko is banished for speaking out of turn at a war meeting. his father holds him down into the smoldering embers of a fire in his office, and banishes him from the lands. 

the second night of his banishment, zuko awakens to a word balanced on end, and awash in blackness. 

“this is not the first time i have been with your ilk,” says the outsider. 

he marks zuko in spite of his protests, and it is here zuko learns that his uncle once carried the gift. 

“he calls it a gift,” says iroh sadly. “but really, it is a curse. i am sorry he has paid you visits.” 

iroh is now the one that begins to lose sleep. 

the outsider’s mark did not turn him into a maniacal tyrant, but he knows he chased the glory of being the dragon of the west because of it. he knows without the mark, he would not have slaughtered dozens of men in a blind rage. 

he knows the mark turned him into the worst version of himself, and he loses sleep with abject terror of what the worst version of his nephew could possibly be.  

in the end. 

he had no reason to worry. 

zuko turns out to be the one who should have been marked the entire time. the one who can turn the curse into a gift. 

among his journey, zuko discovers that while the outsider can visit whomever he chooses, and invade the dreams of mortals, 

so too can his family line. 

there is something inherent in this royal family, they can wander into the void when they sleep in the way that others sleep walk. 

ozai drove himself mad thinking the outsider was tormenting him, when in reality, he was the one trespassing in the other’s living room, and getting mad at the outsider being present. 

ozai’s control over, and power with the mark wanes the more mad he drives himself. 

zuko’s strengthens with every lesson he learns about the magic that enriches his lands. 

[riviae]

so this is long & rambly but i’ve been working on this for awhile now.... anyway, starts out very introspective!regis-y but becomes geralt/regis fluff real quick lol. hope y’all enjoy: 

Before crossing paths with a witcher who proved himself to be a man worth following into the very jaws of death, the seasons hadn’t meant much to Regis. 

He knew the cycle of things--life and death, warmth and cold, planting and harvesting--but he was an outsider to these things just as everything else on the Continent. Time passed. Wars were fought. Blood was shed. Empires rose and fell. All the while, Regis remained, burdened by an immortal life lived alone. To take part in humanity, to love it to some extent, but disappear into the shadows when a curious eye took interest in him. When a hand reached out--something that rarely occurred, unless holding a sword, pitchfork, or torch--he knew it was time to pack up and leave, lest he get too attached. 

Self-preservation, for higher vampires, was confined to the affairs of the heart and the mind--their bodies were not in danger of ruin, but memories and emotions were often ruinous for his kind. 

Yet, whatever contentment he could find as a bystander to the world’s happenings and goings was dashed the moment he met Geralt. All those years ago, Regis had fled from Dillingen to his home in Fen Carn, a cottage in the midst of an elven cemetery, in an attempt at avoiding the ever-encroaching war. 

And in perhaps the same cosmically infinitesimal chances of the Conjunction of Spheres occurring, Regis’ entire life changed at the sight of milk-white hair and amber cat-like eyes. He stepped out of his hiding spot, brushed away the stray leaves that clung to his clothes, and faced his destiny with a reserved, tight-lipped smile. 

He’s a witcher, Regis thought, the wolf medallion at the man’s sternum sparking a tiny flame of uneasiness in the vampire’s gut. Then, a more logical thought followed: I’ve always wanted to meet a witcher under amicable circumstances and now, here one is, practically at my doorstep. What luck! 

As his journey with Geralt and the hansa continued, as they traveled and fought, bled and healed, wintered in a land akin to a fairytale, Regis had a startling realization. Something had thawed inside him and he was fairly certain it was the stirrings of love. Like a change in season, like the subtle shift from winter to spring, where one wakes in the morning and sees that all the snow has seemingly melted in the night, unaware of the slowly melting ice with each sunny day until it was completely gone, so Regis was caught unaware by what he felt for the hansa--by what he felt for Geralt in particular.

Just how far would he go for these humans? How much would he sacrifice for these flickering beacons of light, here one moment, gone in the next? It was the ghost of himself--the monster he once was--that would have asked these questions. But the Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzeiff-Godefroy of the present loved his friends even more for their fragility, their tenacity in the face of a world that seemed at the ready to send them into an early grave. Love, he decided, staring at the smiling faces of the hansa at their breakfast table in Beauclair Palace, was a good enough reason to die for--and a good enough reason to live for, when he was on the cusp of nothingness. When any other sentient being would have longed for death in the throes of agony, Regis held on. For them. 

Memories spilled from his head at the first touch of magic-touched flames, nails clawing helplessly at the air. Fear burned him alive, ate away at his flesh until nothing but a pillar of ash remained. It was a pain worse than anything he had felt before--worse than anything he could have ever fathomed. He was neither alive nor dead, but something grotesquely stuck in the middle, unable to pass on to the comforting abyss of oblivion. 

Between the coldness of fear and not-death, between the pain of a body futilely attempting to regenerate from nothing, Regis did find some respite. He dreamed. And dreamed. And dreamed. He was transported to memories of the past, and while some were happier than others, even the painful recollections felt better than the aching emptiness that threatened to swallow his consciousness whole. 

Angouleme’s encouraging laughter whenever he used one of her... unique phrases. A warning pinch from Milva when he veered too far off topic, followed by an apologetic, but brief pat of his hand. A comfortable silence between himself and Cahir as they stayed up to guard the group during the night, sharing a small tincture of mandrake hooch to pass the time. Dandelion’s rapt attention to Regis’ stories, one time so transfixed that he caught his sleeve on fire as they all sat around the campfire and didn’t even notice. Geralt telling him about Ciri, voice warm, eyes crinkled in a rare unguarded expression of fondness. 

He thought back on his journal entries, the once severe, cerebral scrawl now sprinkled with mentions of the hansa. 

Angouleme somehow stole a dozen baguettes from the last tavern we stopped at and took only a quarter of one for herself before distributing the rest to the unfortunate people living in the slums of the city--and I never would have noticed (her prowess as a bandit is not something to be dismissive of, regardless of her youth) if she hadn’t also tried to search through my satchel while I “slept” in the hopes of finding olive oil to spread over her bread. For a child raised by cruelty, her morals are far better than mine when I was her age--or, rather, when I was developmentally at her age. Well, better in certain respects. She’s been quite a menace to the echelon of Toussaint... 

Milva means to show me how to hunt like humans do, meaning that I must learn how to be an archer. I don’t have much skill with human weapons--for nothing is as deadly as a pair of claws or teeth built to pierce and bleed flesh--but I will try my best all the same. Perhaps after this we can continue our reading lessons. For as much as she bemoans academics and learning for the sake of learning (as in things not readily helpful in her everyday survival), she is a naturally charming and brilliant pupil. Her “common sense,” as Angouleme often calls it, has kept us from harm plenty of times--which is why her ability as a student doesn’t surprise me. Now, if only she would stop climbing up a tree whenever our lessons start to bore her... 

Cahir, to my surprise, has taken on the role of doing the laundry for the group. Granted, we all have very few vestments to spare, but what clothes we do have that can reasonably benefit from a soak, Cahir takes and washes in the lake. Which, while I appreciate the sentiment immensely, I still found myself mildly panicked when I went to dress in the morning and my trousers were nowhere to be found. The man is quite young, probably no more than twenty-two years, but he has an old soul, as the saying goes. I would not be surprised if he finally grows sick of war, having grown up in an Empire where bloodshed is the status quo, and decides to make his living as a fisherman or farmer after we reunite Geralt with his ward. I sincerely hope that he gets the chance. 

Dandelion, ever the poet, has shown me his latest ballad. And imagine my surprise when I realized it was about me despite my immense caution on writing anything regarding higher vampires at all. It’s incredibly vapid--a shame, since he is quite the wordsmith when not preoccupied by romantic affairs--but I admit, if it were published, it would become popular within a week. He took the story of my youth and twisted it into something nearly unrecognizable, save for the titular character being named Rex. A two-crown romance with the nominative case of my name attached... perhaps this is a caution to everyone: never make friends with a writer if you value your privacy. 

Geralt dozed off beside me with his head on my shoulder. Now, him sleeping close to me is not all that uncommon--we spent many nights as a company huddled around a dwindling campfire together. What was uncommon was that he sought me out--practically barged into my room--to take his late afternoon nap... all the while I remained as still as a statue, attempting to process the sudden show of affection. Toussaint had softened Geralt in a way, so much in fact, that he apparently saw no harm in falling asleep next to a higher vampire, his swords still leaning in the corner of his room. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of his unusual straightforwardness. Where others might embellish their words, dress them up (or down) to suit their agenda, Geralt forgoes words entirely, instead letting his actions speak with a refreshing honesty. I heard the “I trust you, Regis,” as clear as day.

He thought back to all the times were his cowardice had kept him from voicing his feelings and it paralleled to his past, as if he were the same blood-abusing fiend of his youth. Centuries had passed and glimpses of the same shy, timid vampire who drank blood to be accepted, to make friends, only to lose himself in addiction, still rose to the surface. Blood was no longer a problem, but the fear of otherness, of being ostracized by those he cared about, still tempered his actions. And he was absolutely tired of it.

It was then that Regis made a vow to himself: If I live, If I become whole again, I will tell him the truth. He got his chance almost a decade later, when he was as whole as anyone could be after regenerating from nothing but dust and a drop of blood.

After Dettlaff was placated, no longer a danger to himself or others, Regis visited Geralt at Corvo Bianco. It was summer then, a season that saw him at the witcher’s door just as the last of the rows of sunflowers turned towards the sunlight in the midday heat. 

He knocked on the front door, politeness dictating his actions. A disheveled witcher opened the door, familiar cat-eyes widening marginally at the sight of Regis, as close to a slack-jaw moment of surprise as anyone were bound to get from Geralt. 

“Expecting someone else?” Regis teased, clutching the strap of his satchel as he crossed the threshold into Geralt’s home. He gave a cursory glance about the homestead--it had been decorated fairly well since the last time he visited to drop off the mutagenerator. In fact, the interior was downright cozy, a far cry from what he imagined a witcher keep to look like. 

No matter what Geralt says, his years spent on the Path have influenced him. Only someone who expects to wake in the morning would bother to decorate their home--or to have a home at all. 

The witcher shook his head, long, tangled locks spilling over his shoulders as he scratched tiredly at his beard. “Wasn’t expecting anyone. Thought if it was you though that you’d let yourself in.” 

Regis held his tongue, wanting nothing more than to sit Geralt down and trim his beard. He knew from their time with the hansa that the witcher preferred to be clean-shaven, but hated trimming it himself. The vampire pushed the thought aside. “While I could have simply misted through your window, I didn’t wish to give you a fright.”

“How considerate,” Geralt said, voice rough but teasing. “You chose to wake me instead of letting yourself in.” 

“I assumed you’d be awake. I didn’t realize that respectable vineyard owners slept in until noon.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes at the well-natured jab before walking to his room, leaving the door open behind him. Regis remained in the foyer, focusing his attention on the rather impressive collection of witcher armor that Geralt had acquired. Yet, his supernatural hearing made it impossible not to eavesdrop to some extent; he heard the rustling of fabric and the soft thud of an article of clothing hitting the wooden floor. 

“Hey, Regis,” Geralt drawled. 

“Yes?” he replied a beat too quickly, turning towards the open door. 

“...Gonna get in here? Or do I need to invite you into every room?” 

Scrambling somewhat, the vampire entered just as Geralt tugged a clean white linen shirt over himself. At meeting the witcher’s gaze, the man gave a wide grin. “You came at a good time. I’ve actually got something for you. But close your eyes first.” 

“Geralt, what are you--” 

“Shh. Close your eyes and hold out your hands.” 

A brief flash of fond irritation flickered in Regis’ expression as he gave a long sigh, but obeyed, shutting his eyes. He listened to the tempo of Geralt’s heart-rate, the usual slow and steady rhythm having quickened by a few beats. Ah, so he’s excited, Regis mused. Even witcher mutations couldn’t rob him of the biochemistry of his sympathetic nervous system. Then, a sour thought: I hope this isn’t the last time I get to witness such a jovial mood. 

The sound of his heartbeat grew stronger as the man approached, some sort of fabric draped in his arms, if the rustling earlier was any indication. Gently, Geralt placed the mystery item in Regis’ arms and backed away, the old floorboards creaking under his weight. 

“Happy birthday, Regis.” 

The vampire opened his eyes to see Geralt smiling warmly at him. Peering down, he couldn’t stop the look of absolute surprise upon his features, mouth agape.

“This is...” Regis trailed, fingers running delicately over the soft fabric, briefly pausing to rub his thumb against the black fur which lined the inside. 

“It’s not the exact cloak, given what happened at Stygga Castle,” Geralt paused, briefly wincing at the horrid memory, “But I thought you’d appreciate a new one.” 

Regis opened his mouth and then immediately closed it, unable to find the words to express how much the gift meant to him. You remembered... years passed and you still remembered. 

“I know you can’t feel heat or cold like humans do, but...” he shrugged, a hint of sheepishness in his posture, a hand rising up to rub at the back of his neck. ��It’s been weird not seeing you with one. You never took that damn thing off so I thought it must have meant something to you.” 

“Geralt,” Regis finally replied once he found his voice again. It was the only warning he gave before the vampire laid the cloak on the bed and moved to seize the witcher in a tight embrace. 

Geralt looped his arms around Regis’ back in return, chuckling. He made no attempt at ending the embrace even as the time spent pressed together stretched on. “So... guessing you liked the gift, huh?” he finally asked, leaning into the gentle swaying of their bodies. 

When Regis spoke, it was barely past a whisper, but Geralt heard him all the same. “Thank you. Thank you for listening to me--for knowing me. Thank you, above all else, for being my friend.” 

“I think I should be thanking you. All I got you was a cloak--but you helped bring Ciri home. Almost gave up your life. Can’t imagine that... risking your immortality for someone like me.”  

“Geralt,” Regis started, pulling away to stare the witcher in the eyes, expression serious, “You are exactly the kind of person that inspires sacrifice. You have a noble heart and, despite your best attempts at proving otherwise, it is a heart full of compassion for others. I know you would have done the same if our roles had been reversed.” 

The witcher was silent then. When he finally managed a response, he did so while clasping Regis’ shoulder. It was something the vampire had noticed ever since meeting Geralt again--the man was more tactile than he’d been before his regeneration. As if he was making sure that Regis was real. Alive. Of flesh and bone. Not something that would crumble at his touch or slip through his fingers like a ghostly apparition. 

“I don’t know if I deserve your kind words, Regis. i haven’t always been... noble. There are things I haven’t told you about. Things that pertain to you.” At this, Geralt’s grip on his shoulder faltered and he pulled away suddenly, as if he were expecting to be hurt. “Truth is, I’ve been keeping a secret.” 

Regis blinked in surprise, a retort resting on the tip of his tongue, but he paused. He noticed, for the first time, that Geralt did look genuinely nervous. Geralt had never looked nervous in his presence--at least not because of Regis. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth all the same.

The vampire took a step forward. If Geralt was also planning to tell him a long-kept secret, then he wanted to tell his own confession first. While he still had the courage to do so. “I too have kept something from you, Geralt. I hope we can still remain as close as we were after this... revelation, if you will. But I understand if you’d prefer some time away from me afterwards.” 

“I doubt there’s anything you could say that would make me want you to keep your distance, Regis. Not after Stygga.” 

Regis gave an attempt at a half-hearted chuckle. “Hearing you say that really warms my heart--especially the certainty in your voice--but I’m afraid that what I need to say will change the course of our relationship, for better or worse. You see, Geralt, I’m... quite fond of you.” 

“I’m fond of you as well...” Geralt replied, confusion twisting his features. “Is that really your big secret?”

“Oh, for the love of--” Regis cut himself off, reaching instead with one hand to encircle Geralt’s wrist while the other cupped Geralt’s cheek. “I love you, you stubborn witcher. I’ve loved you for awhile now, really. Even before Stygga. You’re incredibly easy to fall in love with, though I see now that you’re completely oblivious to this trait.” 

Regis’ hold was gentle, light--something Geralt could easily pull away from if he wished to. But he didn’t. Staring into his own reflection within the coal black of the vampire’s eyes, Geralt closed the gap between them, answering Regis’ confession with his own: a kiss. 

Between kisses, Geralt paused, huffing out a short breath. “...You know, I’m feeling like a fool for not telling you that I loved you sooner, Regis.” 

“Likewise. Which is not something I feel all that often.” 

At this, they both laughed before resting their foreheads against each other. It had been a long road to this--to love--but it was well-earned. Later, Regis’ cloak found a home within a closet in Corvo Bianco. Though the weather in Toussaint was rarely cold enough to warrant a fur-lined cloak, Regis wore it as often as he could, but Geralt left an empty hanger in the closet all the same--just in case. 

Seasons hadn’t meant much to Regis... but now, watching the morning sunlight from the bedroom window pool against the witcher’s back, he felt a tug of warmth at the first touch of Fall, at the chance of donning his cloak and the memory of the day it was gifted to him. He didn’t want to replace the painful memories, the memories of those he loved but lost, but he also knew that somewhere, surely, Milva, Cahir, and Angouleme were smiling down at them. And that was a sense of peace with his past that he wouldn’t trade for the world. 

[laur-rants]

Fic Update - Steady the Sword Ch 2

Fandom: Dishonored Pairing: Corvo/Daud [eventually] Rating: Mature Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence AO3 Link Previous :: Next

“I always knew that Hiram Burrows was a snake, I was just too young and eager to see it when he hired me. You know he had me do spy work all over Tyvia under the pretense that I was serving Tyvian interests, the crown’s interests? It wasn’t until Hiram ran off and the High Judges were after me with at least six counts of treason that I realized I’d been had.”

Zhukov talks with his hands. It’s one of the first things Corvo notices, as they sit across from each other in the mess hall. Corvo winces against the bandages on his face as he eats, keeping his good eye quietly on Zhukov.

Chatty, animated Zhukov.

After the fight, Zhukov and a guard had helped Corvo to the infirmary, where they patched him up and sent him on his way. Afterwards, Zhukov suggested dinner, and since it wasn’t like Corvo had any other plans in this frozen death trap, he obliged the offer.

Besides, the man had made it obvious that he knew who Corvo was. Is? Had been, at the very least. And, curious as he is, Corvo has to figure out how and why.

So he stays quiet, asks few questions, and listens to Zhukov as he talks with his hands.

“It wasn’t until after I’d been here for six months or so that I heard from one of my Dunwall contacts what had happened,” Zhukov continues, shaking a fork at Corvo. “That the Royal Protector had killed the Empress, and Burrows was acting Lord Regent. I was shocked at first, but as soon as I had heard that Void-damned man was involved, I knew you weren’t at fault. He was just using another scapegoat, like he did with me.”

Zhukov stabs at his horned seal meat angrily before scooping up another bite.

“And now you’re here. Another sad victim in his game of pawns. Outsider’s bastard.”

Corvo is half listening by this point, chewing on his food absently, but something in Zhukov’s implication causes him to slow to a stop. He eyes the Tyvian man carefully, looking up and down his slim frame. His good eye squints, and the other man looks up, an eyebrow raising. A few beats pass between them before Zhukov sighs loudly.

“You really are a man of few words aren’t you, Attano. Do I have something on my fucking face? Spit it out.”

“I’m not here because I killed…” Corvo pauses, looking around the mess hall, his Mark itching. Zhukov knowing what happened in Dunwall was bad enough; Corvo doesn’t need additional eavesdroppers.

However, everyone else in the hall is too engrossed in their own going ons to care about their long-winded conversation. He meets Zhukov’s gaze and watches as the man shakes his head a bit, eyes large, hands open to coax on whatever Corvo was going to say. Corvo sighs, and starts again.

“Yes,” he states. “I was used as a scapegoat for Hiram to cover up the fact that he hired an assassin to kill the Empress. But I’m not here because of that false accusation.”

Corvo pauses, licks his lips carefully.

“I’m here because I killed too many people getting the crown back. Emi- the Empress considered me a danger to Dunwall as a result, and sent me here on a sentence of freedom.”

Zhukov gives Corvo a scrutinizing look, and Corvo goes back to his food, too self conscious for this kind of conversation.

“And the Lord Regent?”

The Lord Regent’s voice bellowed over the speakers as Corvo looked down at the man himself, cowering like the worm he was. He begged for his life, but it was already gone; his sins were being broadcasted far and wide across Dunwall. The rat plague that devastated the city was his fault, and now everyone knew. If Corvo didn’t kill him now, the populace would do it for him. And yet, still Hiram Burrows had begged. He cried, bargained, and pleaded. He pissed himself in the face of Death.

It was disgusting.

Moments later, Corvo watched from a perched position as the guards inevitably came in to arrest Hiram Burrows, only to find him slain on his bed, face still contorted in fear, smelling of blood and feces. His arm was pinned to the wall behind him with his own sword; a closer look found his very heart stabbed through and pinned to the fabric, blood soaking through the sleeve.

“He was dealt with accordingly,” is all Corvo says, giving no indication of the finer details of his assassination of the man who betrayed the crown and sold out his Empress. A silence settles between them. Corvo busies himself with eating while trying to ignore the sharp ache of his cut cheek; Zhukov digests both his meal and this new information.

“Well,” Zhukov says awkwardly, after a time. “Good riddance, then.”

“Mm,” Corvo affirms. More silence follows.

Corvo scratches a hand over his beard. He’s going to need to trim it soon. Zhukov fidgets with his food.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Corvo,” Zhukov starts again. “This puts me in an awkward position.” He waits, but when Corvo doesn’t respond, he continues on. “You are still an honorable man. So honorable, in fact, that you probably feel you deserve to be here, working out your sentence.”

Corvo snorts and finishes chewing as he looks at Zhukov, a mirthless smile playing at his lips.

“Yes. Of course I do.” But that does not make me honorable , he thinks bitterly.

“Then you are probably not interested in escaping this place, hm.”

If he hadn’t sounded so serious, Corvo may have laughed again. Now though, Zhukov’s voice lowers dangerously, and Corvo can feel the creep of unease on the back of his neck. His brow furrows but he has no response for Zhukov, not yet. Zhukov takes Corvo’s silence as an invitation to continue talking, his lips twitching up in a quick smile as his voice rushes out of him.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that this place is more than it appears. I’ve noticed it too; I even know a thing or two about it. Comes with whole ‘being an ex-Tyvian spy’ deal. And regardless of your feelings, I think we’re both floating along in the same screwed-over boat. And – if we continue the boat metaphor – if we both grab an oar and start paddling, we can help each other–”

“No.”

The answer comes out with such force that Zhukov shuts his mouth with an audible snap. Corvo clenches his left fist, opens it, desperately trying to get the deep itch of the Void out of his fingers. Corvo’s eyes darken and he takes a steadying breath. Zhukov visibly shifts, distancing himself from the wave of wrath that is, no doubt, about to be directed right at him.

“No,” Corvo repeats, softly this time. “I agree, but no. I can’t take that proposal. For my sake, if not yours.”

“But Corvo–”

The Serkonan stands, the action so fast Zhukov is taken aback. A shadow falls over Corvo’s features and Zhukov shrinks.

“ No .”

Something is wrong here. Terribly, irrevocably wrong . Corvo doesn’t know why, but his gut is roiling, head spinning from all the alarm bells blaring in his ears. Walk away from this , his instincts yell at him. Forget this interaction . Avoid Zhukov as much as possible. It is stupid; he should have known as soon as Zhukov recognized him that–

“Okay,” Zhukov shrugs out, his body relaxed and fluid once again. His voice drops when he next speaks, a whisper over the noisy tables. “Just know there are strange happenings afoot here. An ever-present energy. So if you change your mind and want to help…”

Zhukov drums his fingers atop the table as his eyes flick to Corvo’s hand and back up to meet his eyes. Corvo’s intake of breath is sharp as a shock of fear fills him. Did Zhukov know about…but how could he?

“Just let me know,” Zhukov finishes. “I’ll be around. I mean, it’s not like either of us are going anywhere any time soon, right?”

And just like that, Zhukov’s mannerisms switch from serious and deadly to light and amiable. The shock of it fills Corvo, and he’s still standing there, watching the other man go, until he is alone and adrift in the sea of humans filling the mess hall.

It is never a good night for Corvo when he falls asleep only to wake to the sound of whale songs lamenting in the distance.

Corvo’s eyes open to see his tiny dorm filled with a soft blue light. He sits up and the chill that greets him is both unreal and familiar, all at the same time. It is a far cry from the bitter, permeating cold that Tyvia is so known for; no, this is a cold that came from within and surrounds him like a veil. It is the chill of deep water, of whale oil, of death.

It’s the chill one gets from entering the Void.

Preparing himself, Corvo opens his quarters’ door and steps out into a very different landscape. It’s a world that is no longer the icy, bitingly cold halls of Utyrka, but a empty space that stretches until eternity. Islands made of a black, obsidian-like rock hang suspended, their long paths breaking and stretching into the distance. Sometimes they lead to moments of time, pulled from Corvo’s mind and frozen for all eternity. It is a land where a soft blue hangs over everything, a dark gold light threatening on the horizon. It is a place where water flows upwards and whales cry and still-beating hearts tell the secrets of men.

Slowly, carefully, Corvo clenches his left fist and blinks out, embracing the Void stretching before him. He jumps and crosses multiple platforms, passing the happenings of the world suspended in time, before Corvo finds what he’s looking for.

In the shape of a slender young man dressed in grey and black, the Outsider stands on a crumbling stone island, studying a frozen image of Zhukov. The form under scrutiny looks marginally younger and more clean-shaven than the man Corvo met earlier, but the sharp black hair and long nose are indistinguishable. As Corvo grunts and walks up, the ethereal form of the Outsider turns to face his Marked, black eyes boring through him, as if watching his very soul.

It smiles. Corvo manages a frown in return.

“What do you want, Outsider.”

The whale god tilts Its head, manages to look sad, if only for moment.

“Oh, Corvo. Not even a hello for an old friend such as myself? You must be so lonely out here in this frozen world, so far away from Emily, and everyone else you wonder about in the dark when you assume nobody is there to listen to your thoughts.”

Corvos fist clenches and he closes his eyes, counting to five before reopening them. “If you cared about how bored I am out here, you would have visited a lot sooner than this. What. Do you want.”

The Outsider was a being that held the visage of a young man, but this only barely hides Its true, immense nature. The Leviathan dematerializes into smoke and obsidian, only to rematerialize next to Corvo, pacing, hands folded behind Its back.

“Oh but Corvo, you aren’t bored here! There’s so much work to be done: mining, electrical upkeep, making friends…or is Zhukov more truthfully an enemy?”

The being disappears and settles before Corvo, sitting on a block of Void, chin in Its hand as It smiles at the man innocently. Corvo watches back, shaking his Marked hand nervously.

“He knows about the Mark, doesn’t he.” Corvo doesn’t pose the statement as a question. The Outsider doesn’t really answer it anyway.

“Kristopher Zhukov knows many truths of the mortal world. If he doesn’t know the full truth of something, he will know enough to scare. He likes to have secrets, and he loves his current secret most of all. He’s torn between telling you that secret, and letting you guess after it.”

The Outsider frowns now, looking back to the frozen form of the younger Zhukov.

“So I’m here to… caution you, Corvo. Zhukov can help you escape, it’s true. But what will it cost him? What will it cost you ? Even I do not know. Something about him makes his future clouded. Unknown. Perhaps he has already seen what his end will be.”

“What does that even mean?”

The Outsider turns to face Corvo, the movement stiff and unnatural. Those black eyes pierce him like shattered glass.

“It means to be careful , dear Corvo. There are forces at work here in the cold wastes of Tyvia, forces more powerful and awful than even myself. However… if you tread lightly, your feet will find the way out.”

Corvo opens his mouth, ready to ask more questions, but the air rushes out of him like a breath after plunging into cold water. He gasps and coughs as he abruptly awakens, nearly rolling onto the hard floor of his room from the force of being thrown out of the Void. Cursing, he shakes his smoking left hand, willing it back to normalcy.

“Damn that Outsider,” he growls out angrily. “Damn It to the Void and back.”

Despite the inconvenience and annoyance he feels, however, Corvo can’t get the Outsider’s words out of his head. Instead, he quietly repeats them, like a mantra.

Caution, Corvo. Be careful.

Tread lightly and your feet will find the way out.

Paranoia is a natural state of being for Corvo Attano. He doesn’t trust easily and he never has; it made him a great swordsman and an even better protector. It is a sense of awareness that has helped keep alive more than once in the past; now, though, his paranoia is no better than a festering wound he can’t stop picking at.

For all the cryptic warnings and messages he had received from the Outsider, Corvo got next to nothing for them. Time passes at the prison in its increasingly weird way, and Corvo itches with worry. With the sun now up and getting higher, Corvo doesn’t feel safe using his powers to blink and survey the compound, causing him to itch even more. He catches himself massaging his left hand more than he’d like to, trying to calm the deep-seated ache that dwells right under the surface. It reached a point to where a guard noticed, asking if he needed to get his stiff hand checked. He had to hurriedly throw out an apology, saying he was fine before scurrying off and back to work.

Caution, Corvo, the Outsider had told him. Be careful. Tread lightly.

He thinks on the words often but they just leave him with more questions. Caution towards who ? Careful of what ? Tread lightly where ? The Outsider never appears to give him more answers. Instead Corvo is left to stew in his paranoia, cursing the Outsider for every passing day that leaves his nerves on edge. Another month passes. After a while, Corvo can’t tell if he really thinks there’s a strange presence in Utyrka, or if his mind is playing tricks on him.

The worst of it all is Zhukov is still ever present. Corvo swears up and down that he never once saw Zhukov, but now, he’s everywhere. Perhaps he had spent most of his time stuck in the mines, where Corvo didn’t see him. Or perhaps now that the sun  was constantly up, his shifts had moved  to  the compound  at large. Or maybe he had always been there, and Corvo just recognizes him now and can therefore pick him out of the crowd. Whatever the reason, Zhukov is now a constant presence in the prison, always just on the edge of Corvo’s vision. Corvo does his best to ignore him, but as time passes and no answers come forth, he realizes the inevitable.

Sooner or later, Corvo is going to have to confront Zhukov for information. So, despite the way his Mark sears in his hand and how much his senses tell him to leave, he sets his food down across from Zhukov one day in the Month of Clans, his face as stony as Zhukov’s is bright.

“Corvo! It’s been some time since we last saw each other! Are you well?”

Corvo tries not to think about how he’s sure that Zhukov has been watching him just as closely as he has been watching Zhukov. They both “saw each other ” less than a day ago. It’s moments like this that Corvo is not surprised Zhukov was once a renowned spy. He is very good at keeping up appearances. Which also means he expects Corvo to do the same.

“Fine,” Corvo says, a little less stiffly. “The weather is good for my hand; my joints tend to get stiff in the cold.”

This is lie. He watches to see if Zhukov catches it. The sparkle in the man’s eyes tells him he did, in the worst possible way.

Be careful.

“ Hmm! Yes, I suppose neither Dunwall or Serkonos gets quite this cold. Even during the summer thaw, it isn’t that warm up here.” Zhukov motions for Corvo to sit and he does so, only now realizing that he’d been standing with only his food set onto the table. Zhukov makes a subtle look down the table.

“Mind if I take a look at your wrist?”

Corvo’s eyes flick up to Zhukov’s face. The man interlaces long bony fingers evenly on the table. Corvo responds by rolling his wrist and stretching his fingers.

“Don’t worry about it. It won’t get in the way of my work, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Of course, didn’t mean to pry. But you may want to look into getting a new wrap. That one is quite frayed.”

“Thank you. I’ll look into it,” Corvo says lightly, and they both fall into a silence as they eat their food. After they are done eating, Corvo and Zhukov say their goodbyes, both quick to head out to their respective manual labors for the day.

“Same time tomorrow?” Zhukov asks conversationally. As if this was a regular occurrence.

Corvo glances at the clock. Glances at Zhukov.

Tread lightly.

“Sure. I’ll be here.”

They part ways as if nothing more than a casual meeting happened, both knowing that isn’t the case at all.

They meet the following day, as well as the day after that. With the sun high in the sky now, almost everyone was up out of the salt mines and working while the weather was fair. Schedules align more easily. Nearly every day, Zhukov and Corvo are able to meet, eat, and exchange pleasantries.

Except they aren’t pleasantries at all.

It’s subtle, but the veins of serious conversation run just below the surface of each word. The meetings, however, are amiable enough. Zhukov has many stories and makes for an interesting companion. Despite this, Corvo is not sure what trust means to the other man; even as the secrets slip by, Corvo is not sure yet how much to tell Zhukov, and watches each step with a calculated eye.

As a result of his own careful efforts and Zhukov’s intel, Corvo’s mental map of Utyrka grows.

For example, Corvo has now learned through their banter that Utyrka utilizes an underground railway for the guards to rotate shifts and renew supplies. Corvo has known about this railway because the inmates come in through these tunnels, but that was basic knowledge. Now, he knows rough schedules of the railcar comings and goings. He knows how long the tunnels are. He knows most people who try to escape through those tunnels die because of a lack of oxygen, a lack of food, a lack of water, or all of the above.

Corvo has learned the true perimeter of the grounds, and how that changes based on visibility. He knows the furthest body from Utyrka succumbed to frostbite 25 kilometers out. It’s been out there for 74 years, roughly, untouched even by the wolves and so perfectly preserved it looks like the person dropped yesterday. The guards don’t pursue anyone, because nobody has ever really escaped. The Tyvian wilderness is just too harsh for the mere mortal human to handle on their own.

Corvo has also learned that in the over 500 years since the prison has been operational, only about a thousand prisoners have ever served their full sentences. No matter the length, almost all prisoners die here. Some will be here for life, though very few have lasted longer than ten years. Many will try to escape; most, though, succumb to the harsh labor and maddening lack of sunlight. There are even stories of prisoners losing their minds and just wandering off, only to be found months later, dead and curled in a salt cave alcove. No matter their demise, nobody ever has escaped, and only a few have survived.

By the time the sun sets, Corvo’s knowledge of Utyrka is much greater than it was when the sun rose.

Despite this, Corvo never relaxes. His skin still prickles when around Zhukov, his heart still races like he should blink away and never look back. Against his gut instinct, Corvo stays, listening and learning because, just like him, Zhukov has a secret. And Corvo is so close to that secret, he can practically feel it brush up against his fingertips.

It’s the day after the sun finally dips under the horizon that Corvo makes his move. Like a cat, he plans every step, silently stalking closer the breaking point.

“Zhukov,” Corvo says after they eat, grabbing the attention of the thin man. Zhukov doubles back, eying Corvo curiously. The good weather and lack of salt mine work has been good for Zhukov; over the summer his skin had tanned and his eyes had cleared. He also found time to keep his beard trimmed; now, it twitches, a subtle smile tugging at his cheeks.

“Corvo!”

“Can I talk to you for a second? I was going to look into that new wrap you suggested…”

Zhukov doesn’t need a second hint; the eager curiosity shines on his face even as he makes his way over to Corvo slowly and evenly. Corvo motions him around a corner of the complex, just out of the guard’s earshot. It’s deadly cold without the sun, the darkness stretching away from them and only punctuated by the occasional whale oil lamp. When Zhukov pauses, Corvo tugs him a little further along, pulling them out of the light entirely. Hot vapor billows from their mouths in clouds as they hurry along.

“Corvo, what is it? I, uh– woah. ” Zhukov stops only to be started again by Corvo’s powerful grip pulling him along. “Ow– yikes , hey is it just me or is your hand really…warm?”

Corvo looks down at his hand and abruptly lets go, shaking it off. Steam rises gently from under the wrapping. Corvo swallows hard, composing himself.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize–”

“This meeting has nothing to do with a new hand wrap, does it.”

Corvo looks at Zhukov, who knowingly looks right back. He takes a deep breath, his fingers flexing nervously, instinctively.

“No,” Corvo starts, between breaths. The cold air bites at his lungs with each inhale. “It doesn’t. But–”

He pauses, choosing his words.

Caution, Corvo .

“Zhukov, you’ve told me– a lot on what we need to do to get out of here. But I haven’t told you how I can help us.”

Corvo hesitates only a second before he starts to carefully unwrap his hand. The Mark underneath burns, as if wanting nothing more than to be exposed to the cold air, to be used. Zhukov’s eyes watch, confused, until the long strip of cloth falls away, revealing Corvo’s left hand in its entirety. Corvo exhales in relief, watching the Mark as it burns and glows with a sensation that goes deeper than just skin.

Corvo can just barely hear the sharp intake of breath from Zhukov over the Tyvian wind.

“Oh,” Zhukov breathes out. His hands tremble as they hover over Corvo’s Mark. Somewhere in the back of Corvo’s mind, an alarm bells rings and his Mark sears painfully as the other man nears it. He does his best to ignore it.

“You know what this is, don’t you,” Corvo says, keeping his hand just out of reaching distance.

“I–yes, but only the stories, never in person.” Zhukov’s breathing is short. “To think that…all this time…”

More alarms, more pain. Corvo gently pulls his Marked hand back, and it’s like a spell is lifted from Zhukov. He meets Corvo’s eyes as Corvo slowly wraps his hand, hiding the Mark of the Outsider from the cold.

“ This is what I can offer you. The darkest months are when I can use my…abilities the most without being seen.” Careful . “But even my powers are not enough for an assured escape. I just can’t stretch that far. I still need your help, Zhukov.”

He stares Zhukov down, eyes burning like dark embers.

“Can I trust you with this secret?”

Zhukov inhales. The Outsider didn’t lie; the man loves his secrets. Zhukov is nearly shaking in excitement and triumph, as if he always knew but Corvo telling him made it official.

“Yes, of course,” he says, his voice barely over a whisper. “I didn’t work for ten faithful years under the royal spymaster just to sell out your secret here. I want to get out of here and clear my name too.”

Corvo nods, massaging his wrist. He shifts, turns.

“Good. Now, we should get back before the guards ask, and before the food gets–”

“Wait.”

Corvo turns, watching Zhukov carefully, a frown on his lips. Zhukov is fidgeting, as if on the verge of explaining something else.

“I have something else for you, too. That I need to tell you, because maybe you can help me understand it. You might be the only one who does. I would have mentioned it sooner, but I didn’t know…about…” he finishes by gesturing towards Corvo’s left hand.

Corvo’s frown deepens as his insides chill over. “What is it?”

Before he can respond, a guard yells out to them. Both of them jump, turning to see who it is that’s calling out.

Two guards plow up to them, waving for their attention. They are in full Utyrka gear, their heavy coats and thick eyewear hiding their identities.

“Oi! Is that you, Attano, Zhukov?”

Shit . Both of them straighten, fearing the worst. Zhukov squints in recognition.

“Stine, is that you? Yes it’s me, I’m here with Attano.”

Zhukov waves back, and Corvo eyes him carefully. Whatever he was about to reveal, Zhukov has already buried it away like a mouse buries its storage.

“Excellent,” Stine says as she nears. “I’m glad we found you. I have a new assignment and you’re just the man I need. Attano, you can help; this is a two-man job at the very least.”

Somewhere, soft and faint, a ringing starts in Corvo’s ears. It almost reminds him of another sound, singing softly, beckoning him, led by a still-beating heart. He squints against the reverberation, shaking his head to be rid of it.

“What can we do for you, Stine?”

“We found a new tunnel in the mines – need to see if it leads anywhere fresh. You’re the best man for the job, Zhukov. Follow us; they’ll be wanting you both down in the mines, effective immediately.”

[darknessfactor]

Prompt thing: People's reactions to meeting human!Outsider. (Bonus points for different ships)

A/N: I’m probably not going to get bonus points because I don’t really know what you mean by ‘different ships’.  But other than that, I hope you like it!

(Though to be honest, my guess is that if people recognized him, he would make like that alien in that one vine with the X-files song: try to run away and crash into something.)

Billie

“Do you think that the Eyeless have any Serkonan plantains lying around?”

Billie snorted.  “Food wasn’t exactly the first thing on my mind when I was trying not to get speared by Envisioned.  But considering that most of the cultists don’t seem to leave the mountain ever, I’d say your chances are pretty high.”

Seeing him perk up, she added, “But we’re not detouring from getting out of here.  There could still be Envisioned around.”

The Outsider glanced at a pile of snoring cultists that they passed.  “Only Envisioned, I’m guessing?”

“You weren’t watching?”

“I was somewhat preoccupied over what I assumed was my impending death.”

Billie held back another snort, and instead said, completely deadpan, “Don’t assume, it just makes an ass out of you and me.”

The Outsider laughed.  Threw back his head and let out an honest-to-Void laugh, clearly uncaring that it echoed throughout the Eyeless’ hideout.  Billie didn’t have the heart to shush him, turning away to hide a smile.  

It had taken him a little while to re-learn to walk - to put one foot in front of the other and keep his balance - but by the time they stumbled out of the ritual hold, he didn’t need to hang on to Billie’s arm any longer.  He was, unsurprisingly, ravenous, and stopped to grab whatever food was lying around on their way.  He’d already eaten half a loaf of bread and two apples.

The Outsider was, as Billie suspected he might be, fascinated by all the things he didn’t get to experience when he was... well, when he was the Outsider.  He also, however, held onto the wry cynicism with which he’d spoken to Billie, and seemed especially prone to sarcasm.

Which suited her just fine.  It was nice to be around someone who could keep up with her.

The Outsider spoke up again.  “It does sort of have an aesthetic beauty to it, doesn’t it?  If you ignore the cold, unwelcome feeling it has.”

“I’ll set up a resort here.  ‘Come experience all the horrors the Void has to offer.  Visit once and you’ll never sleep properly again.’”

The Outsider smirked at her.  “’People who want to be turned to stone especially welcome.’”

This time, they both laughed.

Emily

“Your majesty, perhaps you’d like to pick your jaw up off the floor.”

Emily snapped her mouth closed, shaking herself and wondering if this was a dream - but when she pinched herself, the Outsider was still in front of her.  He had his hands folded behind his back, a position she was used to see, but the eyes were... different.

“How?” was all she could ask.

“Well...”  And for the first time, he looked hesitant.  “That would be the reason why I wanted a private audience.”

Emily was about to ask what he meant by that when there was a violet flash, and Meagan Foster - Billie Lurk - appeared next to him, arms folded, like she’d been standing there the entire time.

“Mea -”  Emily cut herself off, once again finding herself struggling to close her mouth.  “Billie.  What - ?”

“It’s a long story,” Billie said, with the air of someone who would rather be anywhere else.

Emily couldn’t stop herself from smiling, standing and moving towards them.  Billie eyed her nervously, though the Outsider seemed less so.  Emily placed one hand on each of their shoulders, letting her ‘Imperial Majesty Emily Kaldwin’ mask fall away completely.  

“I don’t know about you two,” she said.  “But I could use a drink.”

Corvo

It was hard to believe that he was actually here, and not visiting in what Corvo sometimes could swear were fever dreams, but the profile (though he was facing away from him) was unmistakable.  

The last time Corvo had been visited by the Outsider, it had been a few weeks after Emily had overthrown Delilah and rescued Corvo.  He had offered to return Corvo’s Mark to him, which Corvo had refused, saying that he had gotten by without using it for fifteen years, and that he could continue to do so.

At that moment, the Outsider was staring down at Jessamine’s grave, while the sun started its ascent.  Corvo moved silently to stand next to him, also turning his gaze to the gravestone.

“Hello, Corvo,” the Outsider said.  “Emily was kind enough to offer me - and my... friend - a place to stay.”

Corvo huffed.  “I know it’s Billie Lurk.  You don’t have to dance around it.”

“Oh,” the Outsider said, sounding awkward, for once.  “Right.  At any rate, I’m sorry I didn’t come to speak to you sooner.  I’ve been... thinking.”

“About?”

The Outsider shrugged.  “What I’ll do now.  Before - when Billie first released me - there was... so much to think about.  Being able to hear so much, and see color, and eat and smell - not to mention Billie figuring out a way to set me up with a fake identity.  And then the decision to come here... I didn’t really consider what I would do with the rest of my life.  I didn’t really realize that I have a life to live.”

He paused, but he seemed like he still had more to say.  Corvo found the Outsider’s willingness to be candid - after many conversations filled with nothing but cryptic words - refreshing.

“Emily says I’m welcome to stay,” he said.  “I think she’s trying to convince Billie to stay as well.  I just... I’m not sure if that’s what I want.”

Corvo hummed thoughtfully.  “Maybe the point of all this is that whatever you end up doing, it’ll be your decision, in the end.”

They were both quiet, for a moment, and then the Outsider looked over at Corvo, smiling.  “Maybe it is.”

[tveckling]

334. Loved by a god

For @dreamingofketchup AO3

The first time Corvo truly felt the god's heavy gaze settle on him was when he had the High Overseer's life in his hands—and decided not to end it. It was sudden; one moment he pressed the brand into Campbell's face with nothing but satisfaction at the screams, the next a weight seemed to settle on his back. He immediately looked around, using his dark vision of course, but there was nothing, no one else. Only the pricking sensation of being watched.

The feeling stayed as he made his way back to Samuel, back to the Hound Pits and the loyalists, even as he threw his tired body on his makeshift bed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was immediately met by a pale face and two black pockets where eyes should be. The Outsider stood with crossed arms next to the bed, looming over Corvo with a small crease between his eyebrows, giving emotion to an otherwise blank face. The distance wasn't uncomfortable, had it been anyone but the god, but it was much closer than the Outsider had even gotten to him before. Corvo sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to face his visitor, and felt his eyebrows rise as the Outsider didn't move, even as their legs now almost touched. The way he stared implied that he didn't even notice. "You spared his life," the Outsider said, with a note of—something—in his otherwise monotone voice. "There were plenty of ways you could have dealt with this man, this man who brought you so much suffering, but most of them led to his death by your hand. I knew there was the chance of you sparing him, but... frankly, I didn't consider it." He tilted his head, and his eyes seemed to burn even deeper into Corvo. "Yet here we are. The High Overseer, a pariah and doomed to an existence lesser than most animals—but still alive. I wonder, how else will you surprise me from now on?" Taken aback by the Outsider's words—Corvo hadn't even thought the god was capable of regular human emotions like surprise—Corvo only shrugged in silence. The two of them looked at each other for a handful of seconds, then the Outsider's lips twitched. It might have been a smile, Corvo thought, but it was gone too quickly for him to decide. The Outsider breathed out and nodded once, more as to himself than at anything Corvo might have done. "It will be a pleasure to find out. I'll be observing you, Corvo. Very closely." That at least explained why he felt like he was being watched, Corvo thought as he opened his eyes in his real bed a breath later. Despite the very short time he had spent in the Void he had slept a long time in real life, as evidenced by the sun's rising state, and there was not a shred of exhaustion in his body. While he got out of bed—for the second time in what felt like as many minutes—he considered whether he should try to contact the Outsider again, tell him that he didn't want to be watched. Corvo was used to the shadows, used to people's eyes focusing on other people or objects rather than him; the thought of being in the focus of someone's attention was unnerving. But even if he did find a shrine, would the Outsider listen? It was unlikely, Corvo thought and walked downstairs where the Admiral already waited for him. He would just have to deal with it. ----- It wasn't easy to get used to the feeling of always being watched. After his next mission Corvo felt more worn out than he could ever remember being: he wasn't able to relax for a moment, even as he hid on top of a roof where he was positive no one could see him; he kept forgetting who was watching him, resulting in several situations where he nearly exposed himself to guards far too early in his belief that they had seen him; and he kept making silly mistakes, like misjudging jumps or missing shots he should have managed to hit in his sleep. In the end he managed to get the safe combination for Slackjaw, thereby taking care of the Pendleton twins, and rescue Emily. If only he could have had time to rest. Instead he was sent on the next mission immediately, despite the weariness weighing down his bones. He didn't complain or protest, knowing that the job needed done and he was the only one who could do it. Samuel only nodded in understanding when Corvo made himself as comfortable as possible in the boat and closed his eyes. Any rest was better than none. He must have managed to fall asleep, however, because the sounds around him changed, shifted in ways that he tried not to think about. As he took a breath he found the air at once both clearer than anything possible in Dunwall while also denser than any air Corvo had breathed. When he opened his eyes he wasn't surprised to find the unending blue of the Void around him. What caused him to raise an eyebrow was the fact that he was still in Samuel's boat, but in the place of the old man sat the Outsider, his dark eyes fastened somewhere far away. "Your mission was a success; the young Empress has been saved and the twins have been delivered a punishment for their crimes. Some might call their fate cruel, others might call it merciful. I find it fitting." The Outsider turned to Corvo, his lips tightening. For a second Corvo thought he looked unsure, but the moment passed. "You now face another challenging task, one that require much strength. I don't want to take much of your time, but I would advise you to focus. Don't think about what isn't there." The comment made Corvo snort, and he opened his mouth to tell the Outsider exactly why he had found it hard to focus during his last mission, but before he could get out any words the scenery blurred and he found himself being woken by Samuel's careful hand. The anger caught between Corvo's teeth fell away as he realized he was at full vigor again, like he hadn't spent the day exerting his physical and mental abilities. A gift, he realized with a start. Could the Outsider have realized the effect his watching had had, and was this his apology? It felt like a ridiculous thought, but still... ----- It got easier after that. At some time during the Boyle party Corvo realized the attention he got from the guests, even thought the couldn't possibly know who he was, bothered him far more than the feeling of otherworldly eyes settled on him. By the time he found himself back in the tower he had called home he found the feeling comforting; at least he wasn't alone in the moment, at least there was someone else who could see his pain and didn't judge him. When he saw Burrows, unguarded and unconcerned in his bedroom, Corvo wanted to kill him. There was nothing else he wanted more in that moment, there was pounding in his ears and  his head screamed at him to shed blood. His sword was already in his hand before he noticed it, and he prepared himself to jump down. A small push, a whisper of a ghost in his ear, got through the pounding and made him look down on his sword—his unblemished, clean sword. He had managed to get himself so far without killing anyone, whether they had deserved it or not. Emily—still so innocent, even after all she had been through—was waiting back at the Hound Pits; what would she say if she found out he had killed the man responsible for all their suffering? Would she be repulsed by Corvo's actions or would she be glad by it? The fact that he couldn't decide which scenario was worse made bile rise in his throat. He wanted what was best for Emily, no matter what it meant for him. She was the most treasured person he had left. Corvo hid on the second floor and watched the guards arrest Burrows, and the satisfaction warmed him. He still wanted to see the former spymaster's blood run, wanted to see the life leave his eyes, but this wasn't bad. All of Dunwall now knew exactly what kind of man Burrows was and what he had done, and Corvo had no doubt that he would get a fitting punishment. In the corner of his eyes he saw a dark shadow, a pale face with unending darkness for eyes. He thought there was a smile on that face, but when he turned to see more clearly the shadow was gone. Corvo huffed a chuckle and shook his head. It was annoying to get pushed out of the conversation every time he tried to say something himself, but he couldn't deny he was growing fond of the Outsider. He knew whose voice had whispered through the blood haze, and he was grateful. Maybe one day the Outsider would let him talk, and then Corvo could thank him. ----- "It... pains me to see you hurt." The Outsider frowned deeply, whether out of frustration for Corvo's sake or confusion about his own feelings, Corvo couldn't tell. He was too tired to think about it, the wound of betrayal still too painful, and he only closed his eyes. Let the Outsider's hands hold him close and ground him. A cold hand—cold, but somehow so comforting—moved across his forehead. "There were many ways the Loyalists could have acted. You, my dear Corvo, by your actions have created so many of them. I wonder if it would make you feel better to know that it could have gone so much worse. No, I guess not. But your Emily is still safe and unharmed, and there is not a thought in anyone's mind to change that, and that is only because of you. If you had acted differently... but you don't need to know about that. It's only the present and the future that matters, not the 'what if's or 'might have's." Corvo let out a weak snort and opened his eyes, looking up at the Outsider. "You like hearing yourself talk, don't you?" The Outsider didn't seem affected, only tilted his head. "Why would you think that?" "Because you talk so damn much." "Ah." The Outsider raised his eyes and looked out into the Void for some time, allowing Corvo to study him close. Finally he said, "Does that then mean you dislike your own voice, since you rarely talk?" Corvo shrugged. "Not really. Just don't have much to say." "That is a shame, since I enjoy listening to your voice." For a second Corvo wondered if he had heard correct, almost hoped he had, because he was having a hard time figuring out what to do about the fact that the Outsider, feared and terrible heretic God, liked his voice. There was too much going on, and he really didn't need one more thing to worry about, especially not this. Couldn't just one part of his life remain simple? The Outsider looked down at him and flashed a smile, an actual, proper smile that transformed his face into something warm and welcome, if so only for a moment. It wasn't like anything about dealing with a god could be considered simple, he decided when he thought about it. He would just have to deal with it later, that was all. There were other things far more important, he remembered with a pang. Emily needed him. The Outsider's hand stroked his hair again, and he mumbled softly, "There will be challenges, people who want to break you or hurt you, but I will always be watching you. You are never alone, Corvo, never again." It was comforting, more than he had thought it would be, and Corvo closed his eyes. He could rest for just a few more moments. The Outsider's hands were almost warm.

[thesffcorner]

Dishonored Retrospective Part 4: Levels 5-9 and Final Thoughts

Part 3 was a rundown of the first 4 levels of the game. In this part 4 we’ll discuss the remaining levels, as well as go over some concluding remarks. 

So let’s start! 

Return to the Tower:

This level is tied with the very final one for my least favorite parts of the game. It’s boring, grey and full of enemies that aren’t fun to fight. Now that you have defeated all of his allies it’s time to go after Hiram Burrows himself, who has barricaded himself in Dunwall Tower.

You start the level with Sam dropping you off in the same place where you started the game, except there is no one to raise the water level so you have to swim in and climb up the tower. The game reuses a lot of enemies here; there are City Watch guards, Officers and tallboys. Once you get inside the actual palace things get slightly easier.

This is also the only time that the game’s invisible walls really pissed me off. I didn’t realize that you were meant to swim into the tower, because every other time there has been water before, you have been attacked, almost immediately by hagfish. So the fact that now the game expects you to swim into a tower, instead of climb the rather climbable rocks around the tower was infuriating. I spent more time than I am comfortable admitting trying to climb the walls and only when I looked up a walkthrough did I realize you were meant to SWIM into the entrance. Bad times.

This level is also where you meet one of the most hideous NPCs in the whole game: the Torturer. He guards the Overseer shrine and is a pretty terrifying enemy. After you dispose of him and his hound, you have 2 ways of dealing with Burrows. You can kill him or you can use the city loudspeaker system against him, by playing the audio-graphs where he admits to orchestrating the plague for all of Dunwall to hear. You can also watch him get arrested which is sweet, sweet karma and then you return to the Hounds Pits.

The Flooded District:

With that, we get to my favorite level, and the game’s turning point. After you return, you immediately get poisoned by Havelock and wake up on Sam’s boat in the Flooded District. Sam apologizes for poisoning you, and tells you he halved the dose.

You then get taken by the Whalers where you get your first real encounter with Daud. He comments how he has nothing against you and even admires you, but can’t let you further complicate things and takes your weapons.

The Whalers put you in a room that’s so poorly guarded, I almost think Daud wanted you to escape. You have two options; getting your weapons back or going straight after Daud. I always chose to do the former first which allows you to find an Overseer shrine where we get the Outsider talk some shit about Daud (do we see a pattern here?). I find their relationship extremely interesting, but I’ll talk about it more in the DLC. For now, let’s just say that the Outsiders sees Daud as somewhat of a failure and their relationship is strained.

Going after Daud isn’t easy. There are a lot of Whalers around, as well as Hounds and the space is pretty limited. If you know where you’re going you can get around a lot of the Whalers and either engage Daud or try and knock him out, or simply steal his journal and run. You also should steal his key which lets you use his tunnel and get to the other side of the district.

So let’s talk about two things I find very interesting.

The first thing is Daud’s speech. If you engage Daud, you get one of the best character moments in the game and possibly most games I’ve played. Daud has a monologue about Burrows, this cemented him as my favorite character.

He resents Burrows and his schemes, but he is no better than the Lord Regent, and is as much, if not even more responsible for Jessamine’s murder, and the state of Dunwall. This is fascinating to me, because he seems to genuinely regret committing the murder, and yet he did it anyway, and took the money. Likewise if you engage him he will do his very best to kill you, in spite of the regrets he has over Jessamine and the fact he knows you are very deserving of the revenge you want to enact.

Sadly, if you chose to go the non-lethal route you will get to hear the speech about Burrows, but not necessarily experience the walking contradiction that is Daud.

The second thing has to do with perspective. From Corvo’s point of view, he saw Daud kill Jessamine with in front of his eyes. He knows Burrows is responsible because the idiot told him, but Burrows could have just as easily hidden that fact and pretended that it was simply the evidence that pointed at Corvo. So while Burrows orchestrated everything, it was really Daud who was directly responsible for killing Jessamine Kaldwin.

And yet, I have never wanted to kill him. In fact, on my first playthrough I went out of my way to keep him alive even after he attacked me, because I thought he was so interesting. Whereas I’ve had no qualms about killing Burrows, even if I think it’s more thematically fitting to have him be taken down, by as Daud puts it, “the same institution that put him in power”. This is a testament to good character writing; Daud is just so much more interesting and better written than Burrows, even if both of their motivation revolves around money. I wonder how much is down to Daud being voiced by Michael Madsen.

Either way, after you steal Daud’s journal and letters, you can use his tunnel. The rest of the level consists of you making your way to the same sewers you used to escape Coldrige. There are some truly heart wrenching moments in this part; the one that stands out the most to me is the two men who get dumped by the corpse train. One says he understands why they City Watch would throw them, but he “just wanted to die at home”.

When you get to the sewers you get to finish Slackjaw and Granny Rags’ story. As you find out from a wounded and dying thug, Slackjaw took his men into the sewers to attack her, and she decimated them. When you find Granny Rags, she is preparing to roast Slackjaw alive. She asks you to help her, and you can agree to help her or refuse. If you refuse her she will attack you and you have to knock her out/kill her twice; once as a human and the second time when she turns into a rat swarm.

When you release Slackjaw he delivers a pretty funny speech about how when he was a kid he thought Granny Rags was a terrifying witch and gives you the key to progress.

You get back to the Hounds Pits where things are… different.  

The Loyalists:

This level is strange because it can either be long and hard, or very simple, depending on whether you know what you’re doing. My first time, I had no idea what I was doing so I wandered around the very hostile Officers and City Watch until I stumbled onto Calista who told me Piero and Sokolov were still alive. The second time I went straight to her and then Piero, and from there it was very easy to activate their new pylon and knock out every single hostile.

If you do know that, this is an incredibly short level serving mostly as a regroup before the very end. There are no Outsider shrines, runes or bonecharms. You find out what happened after you were poisoned; Havelock killed everyone except for Calista who he let go because of respect for her uncle.  

It’s time for the final showdown; you summon Sam and the two of you make your way to Kingsparrow Island where Havelock, Pendleton and Martin have taken Emily.

The Light at the End:

This my friends is where I leave you.

JK, but this is the true point at which how you played the game so far pans out. I have played it twice so far and both times it has been on low chaos. If you do end up playing it on low chaos, Havelock poisons both Pendleton and Martin before you even get there. All you have to do once you get to inside the fort is knock him out and rescue Emily.

On high chaos you get to fight all three and the ending is different. But because I haven’t ever experienced it, I feel like I would be cheating to just reiterate something that someone else did.

So let’s talk about low chaos. Sam drops you off on the shore and gives you a heartfelt goodbye that’s the last genuine moment in the game. From there, you have two options; the beach and the harbor. The harbor is the route I’ve chosen and you get to knock out a bunch of guards before spending the rest of the level in sewers and drain pipes.

I don’t like this level at all. It’s grey and boring and full of guards. I appreciate that it’s easier to compensate for the dedication to keeping low chaos, but at the same time the confrontation with Havelock is non-existent. The only positive I have for it is Havelock’s speech at the end. It’s the first real glimpse into the madness behind the Admiral; he is a man so deluded in his convictions that what he’s doing is the right thing for Dunwall that he’s willing to kill his allies and rationalize it by his own paranoia. I love the irony of blaming Martin and Corvo for the fact that he poisoned both, without realizing that if he hadn’t betrayed Corvo in the first place, he would have been hailed as one of the saviors of the Isles.

The ending is short; we see Emily become Empress and the plague getting dealt with thanks to Piero and Sokolov working together. It feels a little rushed and again, it’s my least favorite part of the game.

Concluding Thoughts:

I think from this level breakdown it become obvious that I vastly prefer the first part of the game over the latter. The only level I really enjoy after Burrows is handles is the Flooded District and even then, I really only enjoy that parts that involved Daud and the Whalers. The ending feels rushed and it really isn’t great that the final confrontation is on an island that isn’t even in Dunwall, and if you play low chaos you basically just need to shoot Havelock and open a door.

Let’s talk about the twist at the end of the second act. I hadn’t been spoiled for the game before I played it, and I still could tell that the Loyalists were going to betray Corvo. It was telegraphed from the very method in which the gameplay is constructed; Havelock has no qualms about sending you to kill all these people, supposedly for the greater good. I really need to emphasize this; even though there is a non-lethal way of dispatching of each target, Havelock specifically sends you to KILL all the accomplices. How is it surprising then, that this man will betray you?

Martin we see very little of, but Pendleton too is more than willing to set you up for a duel and sacrifice his own brothers for a place next to Havelock. This twist is so blatant that it honestly feels like a countdown to when you actually get to it, and the game doesn’t actually do anything neat with it.

The gameplay and world building are excellent, and it does get a shocking amount right the first time. Where it falters is the story and the character motivations, and as we will soon learn, the series realizes these faults and improves on them tenfold.

Join me next time, as we discuss the story and changes introduced by the first DLC instalment, the Knife of Dunwall.

part 3 < > part 5

[onewhoturns]

roving feet pt 2

a ficlet in two parts: 1st angst, 2nd fluff (/smut). If you enjoyed it, feel free to check out my ko-fi ^^

She didn’t visit him for a long time after that. She covered her fear with anger. He was manipulating her. She shouldn’t feel bad for the man, he didn’t want her pity -- but maybe he wanted her anger. Was that what he wanted? For her to be mad at him? He seemed to teem with some surging writhing something and parsing out just what that was was beyond her. She didn’t have the energy to invest.

The Outsider became just another subject she was briefed on. How his health was, plans for integrating him into society. He would need a name.

“Will we give him a title?”

Corvo seemed surprised at her question. “I… hadn’t considered it.”

She avoided her father’s eyes, keeping her tone blasé and her eyes glued to the papers she perused. “It seems he would be useful to have on hand in case of any… Void-related occurrences.”

Her father’s body stilled and his eyes narrowed. Maybe she was a little too eager. “...Void-related occurrences,” he repeated, just barely holding back his incredulity.

“And how much does he know about all those we come in contact with? Surely he’s the most reliable spy you can find, regarding people's pasts.”

Was it so wrong for her to want the former god near? Yes, he was angry, but he was newly changed -- he’d been wrenched from a life - an unlife - he’d known for thousands of years. His anger was justified. Why he directed it at her and not Billie… she had no clue.

“Emily… You haven’t seen him. He’s not the same pe-” Corvo stopped himself, seeming to rethink his words. “Not the same being he was. He doesn’t control the Void.” His voice turned wry. “He has no control whatsoever.”

Emily turned her eyes on her father, imperious. “Isn’t that your job?” She straightened her back, her tone authoritative. “You said you’d be training him.”

Corvo’s lips twisted, but he didn’t object. She was the Empress, after all. “Yes…”

She heard it in his voice. “But?”

“But he’s like a child! No, worse than a child, because you as a child were already training! You had discipline. He has a smart mouth and a fatalistic attitude that makes him just…. impossible.” Corvo was rarely so outspoken. Truly the man must be grating on him.

“Who’s training him?” She cocked her head at him, as though she didn’t already know the answer.

Her father shot her a knowing look. “You know damn well who. I’ve had to take time away from my duties as Spymaster - my duties to you as your Protector - twice a week for three months. And he’s no better with a blade than he was when we started.”

“Have Billie do it.”

Corvo raised a skeptical eyebrow at his daughter. “Billie Lurk stayed her hand from killing him when she knew nothing of him. Arm her with a blade against him now, after months of having him as a constant burden? He wouldn’t last ten minutes.”

Emily felt irked at her father’s words. Constant burden? Her neutral face shifted to a scowl, and her voice hardened. “As Empress of the Isles, I order you. Lurk is to train the Outsider. She’s already been conditioning him, getting him strong again -- weapons training is a practical addition. Send her anything she needs.”

Corvo’s lips pursed, but he would not refuse a direct order. She very rarely made them - at least to him - and when she did, she would not budge. “Yes, Your Majesty.” His voice was gruff.

She shrugged off the twinge of guilt that always followed those words.

The third time she visited him, she came prepared for confrontation.

Over the garden wall, Billie was down and out before she could see what hit her (a sleep dart, as it happened to be), and then Emily’s hand reached the ledge, she pulled with her magic -- and the window was open. Had it been open when she’d arrived? She’d taken Billie down virtually silently, as she’d been trained, surely she hadn’t tipped him off to her presence with mere noise.

“Come on in, Empress.” His voice was even, relaxed, and when she blinked into dark vision she saw him around the corner of the window, facing inward, as though waiting for her to appear. So she did.

“You knew I was coming?” The words were out of her mouth even as her body was reappearing. Emily glanced him over, curious.

He looked good. His skin had gained some color, still quite pale but no longer a waxy pallor, mostly likely thanks to the sunlight out in these parts. It must have been nice being free to walk around after weeks holed up recuperating. He’d gained muscle tone, too, and weight, looking the healthiest she’d ever seen him. Of course, he would be no match for anyone with fighting experience - not hand-to-hand, not with that build - but maybe if he did some cardio conditioning he could just outrun his opponents. He’d need much more work if he were to ever work for Corvo.

Emily’s eyes moved up from his body, and her eyes met his.

They were different now, too. So different from what they had been. Clear. Sharp. Engaged. She felt a rush of relief she hadn’t known she’d needed. And with that relief came the realization that he was giving her a look -- a slightly smug look.

He crossed his arms, and she wanted to roll her eyes, almost positive that he was just preening from her attentions. She’d honestly just been checking his healing progress, but the idea that he’d think otherwise, that was an amusing one. What a very human thing, ego.

“I had a feeling,” he deadpanned.

She glanced around. The room wasn’t exactly clean, still scattered all over with learning materials, although now diagrams of exercises and fighting stances also littered the desk. Under books, she observed, wondering if he even bothered looking at the exercise diagrams at all. Based on her conversation with Corvo two weeks prior: no. “Hm.” She pursed her lips. “Really know how to make an empress feel at home.” She didn’t look back at him, instead beginning a walk around his room again, checking over the titles he had scattered about.

“I didn’t exactly plan for your arrival. My ‘feelings’ are a bit more immediate, Your Imperial Majesty.” His tone was wry but… playful? A dry humor. “More a sensing of Void powers. It’s how I knew the first time you visited.”

The first time? Emily realized with a small pang of guilt that he was actually referring to her second visit. He hadn’t known she was there that first night. That night he’d been cold and weak. That painful night. She shook her head to clear the memory, glancing down at the book on the bedside table. The Metaphysika Mysterium. Her lips twitched. Back to his heresy. She was glad. “I see you’ve concluded your studies on the Abbey.” She glanced up, lips forming a small smirk.

He hadn’t sat down. He didn’t need to anymore. He had closed the window softly and moved to lean on the side of his desk, watching her. That look was back in his eyes. Interest. Fascination. She fascinated him. It was a feeling she realized she’d missed. Her eyes spotted a spine that looked familiar on the desk beside him. Why did it look so familiar? She made her way toward the desk, running her fingers over books as she went, glancing over the maps, drawings, diagrams that were everywhere.

“Hm, yes,” he hummed his confirmation, “I’m quite the pious one these days.”

Emily raised an eyebrow, picking up on his playful attitude. “A good little heretic, are we?” The words came out in a sarcastic murmur. She found herself slipping into the play of it surprisingly easily. She hadn’t acted this way since before the coup, when she’d grown up so fast. Maybe it was just being so far from the tower, or maybe it was time of night, or that she was free of the burden of lies that came every day as she hid her Mark from the world, but she felt a blessed relief from the pressures of imperial duty. As though a weight had been lifted, and a woman had waltzed out from under it, magically intact.

“Heretic?” He placed a hand on his heart, a look of mock offense. “Never. No, I have the strictures well memorized. All that business about the Wandering Gaze, the Lying Tongue,” he glanced at the ceiling as though to help himself remember. She highly doubted he’d forget. “...those Restless Hands, Roving Feet, Rampant Hunger,” he shook his head. “That Outsider, truly,” his words were spoken with tight lips but good humor, “always after the Errant Mind.”

Emily paused as she reached the opposite end of the desk, toying with the edge of a diagram she’d been looking at as she glanced to the aforementioned offender. Crafty bastard. What was he getting at? Whatever it was, she found herself not minding it. Beyond not minding it, she found herself happy to take the bait. How did that Errant Mind stricture go? ‘Two contrary thoughts…’ something about ‘he will become weak-willed and subject to any heresy.’

Heresy, indeed.

“That’s only six.” The words were out of her mouth in a heartbeat. She’d willfully taken the bait. Her eyes glanced over him again, and she didn’t see just his current body. She saw him as she had every time before, in the Void and out of it. All of him. His weak points, his failures, his cunning, his wit. His knowledge. His fear. And she didn’t mind it.

She didn’t mind it at all.

“Six?” He seemed to be finding it difficult to hide his amusement, his lips twitching into a smile - a satisfied smirk, even - as he cast a sideways glance at her.

He hadn’t moved an inch, still perched on the edge of the desk, but she could see the tension in him. He wouldn’t spring, himself. No, he wanted her to make this decision of her own free will. She wondered if, in some part of his mind, he had taken the strictures to heart. If he wouldn’t come after her because he wanted her to be able to pull away.

Not that she would.

“Which did I miss?”

She raised an incredulous brow. “You damned well know.” Her voice was lower than usual, deadpan but with an underlying current of accusation. Still, she shifted closer to him.

“Do I?” His voice had dropped too, becoming a quiet murmur as he turned to face her, leaning his palms on the desk now.

Tiny incremental movements drawing them closer and closer together, into each other’s orbit.

She turned away, a smirk on her lips, feeling like the most powerful woman in the world. A god - well, former god - at her beck and call, if only for a moment. “I’m sure you’re familiar.”

He shifted around the corner of the desk, coming up next to her, his right hand brushing her left.

Her skin sang at the touch.

His shoulder ever so briefly tapped her back, and his voice was on her neck, still waiting for her to come to him, even as he drew closer and closer. “You are, too.” It would have been a sing-song tone if his voice hadn’t been entirely in his throat, lending it a gravely texture that was…. distinct.

Hair raised on the back of her neck as his breath slid over her. She finally spotted that familiar spine and pulled it from where it lay. Ah. Of course. She’d been given a finely bound copy of this just before its release. A smile played on her lips as she turned to face him, finding him far closer than he’d ever been before. “Reading up on me?” She purred, holding the cover to face him. When he was bent down ever so slightly just like this, they were at perfect eye level.

He held her gaze steadily, and Emily found her blood was rushing in her ears, her face heating, her lips parting, breath shallow. Standing, turning to face her head on, his graceful hand took her biography from her fingers, placing it back on the desk. Again the brush of his skin on hers was electric. Her eyes briefly fluttered closed, so entranced by the sensation.

“You didn’t answer my question, Empress.”  His words were quiet, a whisper.

A hand cupped her face and she very nearly jumped, shivering at his touch as her eyes opened again. Immediately she was ensnared once more: lost in those clear hazel eyes. She felt the puckish smile playing over her lips even as she saw it mirrored on his. Her hands were pressed against his chest, feeling the oh so human heart that pounded furiously within him. She leaned just to the left, his hand sliding down her neck, raising goosebumps in its wake, and she lifted her chin to speak into his ear. “...And I don’t intend to.”

It was a tease, a game - a strategic move - and she wondered where he would play next.

His free hand slipped around her waist, reeling her in. Her body pressed against his and her heart leapt as he cupped her face again, fingers combing back and tangling in her hair, leaning his forehead against hers. Warm breath played over her lips and she found her eyes closed once more, savoring the sensation. Her mouth watered. His lips were mere millimeters from hers and she felt him smiling. “Truly, there is no quicker means by which a life can be upheaved and sifted than by the depredations of uncontrolled desire.” His lips moved against hers, but never close enough, just out of reach, his words feeding her.

She strained to bring her lips to his, to finally seal his words away with her breath, but he pulled ever so slightly away, his fingers woven in her hair serving to anchor her from reaching his lips.

If she truly wanted to, she could pull free in an instant. She could have him dead in a split second if that was what she wanted. But she didn’t want that. She never wanted that. She happily accepted his hand in her hair, enjoying the massage-like tug as he pulled her lips back.

And again he was there, lips just out of reach, teasing her. The hand from her waist raised, running his thumb along the curve of her lower lip. “...Within these things, the Outsider dwells.”

She felt a groan from deep in her chest, yearning for him, and her hands clenched into fists in his shirt, but she wouldn’t pull him down to her. This was a battle and she would stand her ground. He would come to her. She licked her lips in anticipation, and felt as she accidentally tasted his as well. That was the breaking point.

And his will broke before hers. As it should.

“Fuck -- Emily-” His words were lost between her lips, along with so many other words and sentiments. Why do you do this to me and why can’t I stop and how did we get here and yes -- so much yes.

Their kisses were hungry and passionate, mouths eagerly exploring one another. She led him in how she liked to be kissed, he was quick to respond in kind, and they were locked together. Every moan, every rasped breath, every time their skin met stars danced before her eyes. 

She found her hands roaming the planes of his chest, his waist, the sharp dip of his clavicle, fingers tickling trails down his neck -- wanting to touch all of him. The thought that popped into her mind had a low chuckle escaping her throat.

He pulled back, eyes sharp, not missing a thing. He didn’t look angry, only amused. “What?” His voice was low, too, not quite breathless.

She glanced at him from under her lashes - eyes dark and burning - then looked away, a smile on her lips as she ghosted them over his jaw, letting her words drip like honey in his ear. “Restless Hands...” Her teeth grazed the skin just below his ear, and she felt his hands, wrapped around her waist, squeeze her in quick response.

“Mmm...” His hum of approval rumbled through him, lips dropping to her collarbone, his movements coaxing her to turn her head, letting his mouth work small kisses up her neck. His breath was hot, wrapping tendrils of air around her, his words crashing against her skin like dark warm waves. “Wanton Flesh.”

He closed his teeth at the base of her neck, nipping her, and she couldn’t stop the moan even as an impish grin spread over her lips. “Forgetting this sixth stricture?” she mocked his play from just moments ago. “You seem to have quite the Lying Tongue.”

The words were lost again, that same tongue quick to silence her -- to cleanse her of the Abbey’s dogma, to raise her to her own place of worship. His kisses took her breath away, and she found herself tugging at the buttons of his shirt, entreating him, begging that she might continue. He leaned toward her, aiding her efforts, and when she was nearly done his own hands hesitated only briefly before working their own path over her clothes as well, coaxing every fastening open. “Oh my beautiful blasphemer…” Despite the smirk in his voice, his tone was still almost reverent.

Her hands were steady and eager, no doubt or fear in her, as they traced over every line on his torso, his skin warmer than she’d expected -- flushed with heat, just as she was. She pulled away just long enough for each of them to shrug off open clothes, and then she was on him again, his mouth stifling a hungry cry she hadn’t realized she’d uttered. As his fingertips grazed the soft skin of her belly, running over lean lines of muscle, she found her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him to her, his hands now on her back.

She wanted to leap into his arms - wrap her legs around him - but, knowing he was still building muscle, she instead broke away from his kiss. Her body pressed up against him, rolling her hips against his as her eyes found that piercing pale gaze. “I want this.”

His breathing was heavy as his eyes seared into her. Did her eyes have that same hunger in them? He had the air of a cat playing with its prey. His mouth captured hers again, nipping her lip, eliciting a satisfied moan, and he rested his forehead against hers. “I live to serve, Empress.” The playful, wicked curve of his lips made her insides melt.

“Damn right you do.”