Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dunwall, Gristol

Month of Clans, 1820

Smoke curled up from a lit cigarette, hanging in the late afternoon gloom above Dunwall's Brewery District. The owner flicked the butt off into the pot beside him before bringing the filter casually back up to his lips, pulling a drag and letting it sit in his lungs a moment before forcing it back out into the city skyline. Back to a brick chimney, he read the page in his hand once more before chancing a glance over at his scowling companion.

“You aren't seriously thinking about taking that hit, are you, Daud?”

The man called Daud smirked, rolling the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other before removing it again, flicking ash into his makeshift tray. The flower within the pot was long dead, the withered stem not even noticing or caring as the burnt paper rained down on its browned leaves.

“Don't be so nervous, Rulfio. This has hardly been our hardest job, after all. In fact it doesn't look too bad… what're you so worried about?”

Rulfio scowled, arms resting on his knees from where he sat on the other side of the roof. The location they had picked was secluded and a common meeting spot for the two of them. Noone else had stumbled across this little corner of Dunwall in quite a while, judging how long the plant's pot was left abandoned.

“Look, I just have a bad feeling, alright? There's all sorts of red flags around this contract. You looked into the guy, didn't you? This gentleman, Edwin Brimsley? I know you're aren't so stupid as to not do your research.”

Daud scowled, his ice eyes narrowing as he studied his friend. Or, well, could he call Rulfio a 'friend’? Their business didn't allow for such emotional attachments. Assassinating was a dirty job, and a competitive one at that. He'd known Rulfio for years now, but he had no reason to think he really had Daud’s best interest at heart.

“Brimsley is a bit of a strange character if you look into him, sure. That whole house is a little cuckoo; his brother worships the Outsider, did you know that?” Daud flashed a handsome grin before shaking his head and taking another puff of his cigarette. “Noble shitheads, the lot of them.”

“Then you probably saw that about six months ago this noble posted a very similar bounty to this one?” Rulfio insisted, his eyebrows raising in concern as a hand scratched at a peppered beard. “Almost word for word. The guy they hired that time was never found. Dockett, I think he was. A really accomplished assassin, just dropped out of the city overnight.”

“So what?” Daud leered back. “Assassins come and go all the time. We both know this. It's not really a booming business.”

“That's not the point, Daud. The point is that eight months before that contract, a near identical one was printed. From inside the same house just from a different family member, this time an aunt. That assassin wasn't heard from again either.”

Daud lowered his contract and scowled at Rulfio, his cigarette balanced between his lips.

“So what, you think this shit's a conspiracy?”

“I'm saying you're swimming happily into shark infested waters, Daud.”

“And I'm saying you’re too much of a paranoid shit, Rulfio,” Daud growled. He tossed his spent cig into the pot and then slapped his hand on the contract. “Everything in the fine print is outlined as per discussed and the pay is decent. It isn't even that hard; we go into the Hounds Pits Basements, we find this hound trainer --” Daud pulled the pages closer and squinted at the print. “-- Howard Fink, and expose his cheating behavior and end his career.” Daud's eyebrow cocked as he smoothed his slicked back hair. “All conditions are agreed upon by both parties. It's an in-and-out job. We'll be fine.”

But Rulfio shook his head, throwing thick, calloused palms up.

“No 'we’ this time, Daud. You're on your own for this one.”

Daud gaped. His jaw worked and his eyes threw daggers as he sat up straight.

“Your pay is in the contract, Rulf. This hit might be easy but it's only easy with two in the job, not one!” Rulfio remained resolute, his Morley background keeping him stubborn as an ox. “Are you kidding me? Are you this superstitious about this contract?!”

“There's a reason that family is avoided, kid. There's bad blood around them. They're either cursed, or determined to end the assassin business in Dunwall.”

“Don't kid me, Rulf,” Daud snarled, his lip curling. “I've been doing this just as long as you.”

“Just because you started killing when you were 17 doesn't justify your age compared to mine, Daud,” Rulfio sighed, scratching at his beard. He stood up, pulling his close black jacket over his broad shoulders. “Look, Daud, I also know you, and I know how hot your Serkonan blood runs. I can't stop you, but I'm tapping out of this one. You can keep my cut, if you even get the promised pay.”

“You really think I won't make it back from this? Are you serious?” Rulfio just shrugged his shoulders, which only irritated Daud more. He stood up, matching his fellow assassin for height, if not girth. “Fine. Fine, how about this. Since you're so convinced I'm going to die or end up at the bottom of the river after this hit, you come back here at the same time three days from now. If I'm here, you get the cut you were supposed to get. If not, well.” Daud shrugged, then folded the paper and shoved it into his shirt. “I guess you win your superstitious bet.”

Rulfio raised an eyebrow, huffed out a laugh, then extended a hand.

“Sure. We'll shake on it.”

Daud grinned and clasped tight to his partner's grip. The shake was strong, if short lived. Daud's eyes flashed dangerously as he pulled his own black cloak over his protective vest.

“I'm going to make you eat your words, Rulf!” He laughed, then saluted before allowing himself to throw himself over the roof's edge and out of sight.

------

The next night saw Daud staking out at the edge of the Wrenhaven, holed up in a small, weathered tower just east of the Hound Pits Pub. The tower actually connected to the 300-year-old building but was in such disrepair it wasn't any surprise to him that nobody used it. He sat at the window, cigarette in hand and eye trained at the brewery surrounding the establishment. Lights could be seen down below, the flickering warm tones of fire mixing with the steady glow of whale oil blue. Figures cast shadows and voices mingled. Daud pulled another smoke-filled breath before letting it out and getting up. He gathered his gear and adjusted his hood, keeping it clasped while he checked knives, mines, sleep darts, traps, smoke canisters and finally, his long, stolen whaler sword. The blade was nicked at the edge near the hilt; he ran a gloved thumb over it for good luck before sheathing it to his side. He left a trap at the window then set out into the gloom, beelining for the pub. He took the abandoned path to the roof from the tower, then lithely jump the railing and stooped low, keeping himself close to the shadows as he crept closer to the voices down below.

Decades ago, a section of the brewery was converted into the fighting hound pit that the establishment became named after. The old name used to be based on the pub's inn and diner features, along with the bar. That name dropped out of usage once the dog fighting started. As breeding grew and hounds got better and better in the pits, this place became renowned for its champions among noble and commoner alike.

Of course, only nobles have a real stake in dog fighting, with the best bloodlines money can buy. That meant that hounds were as competitive as assassins and their bounties.

At least, Daud would assume. He didn't really have anything else to compare it to.

“Come on, come on, let's get these mutts ready! I need muzzles on and bets placed before we go, everyone!”

Daud peered over the railing, throwing knife in hand, his feet steady. Below, a man with a thick handlebar mustache brandished some papers; as Daud watched, nobles brought dogs over, registering their names while others threw in their bets. The mustache laughed, teeth glinting with gold fillings. Daud's nose curled and his fingers tightened on the blade hilt.

“Hurry up, hurry up, my brother has a special treat for you all today. That beast of his is ready for blood tonight, so you best be ready to lose a dog or two tryin'ta beat it.”

“Don't be ridiculous, this dog hasn't lost a single fight!” A well dressed, stout noble exclaimed. The hound at his side was a scarred brute of a dog, muscled more than most men. Daud's eyes boggled as he looked; what in the Void were they putting into those dogs?

The mustache just laughed. “We'll see about that. Good ol’ Crone may be the first victim of the night. Howard's beast has barely been scratched, but you try to win!”

Daud perked at that; the murmurs grew and the growling ceased and soon the group was led back into the building. Not missing a beat, Daud stealthily followed; he squeezed his way into the roof piping, keeping hidden as he tracked the group through brewery. They took a right at the back and then entered the sewers. Daud followed at a distance, carefully closing the trap door and slinking into the tunnels after them.

The group led him into a large underground arena, one built directly under the pub. Daud eyed the arena carefully; there was a skylight and multiple furnaces and pipes; every nook and cranny was filled with hound cages, some with a hound inside, some not. Below the piping and inlaid in the ground was a pit, but it was unlike any hound pit Daud had ever seen. This was more like a bear arena, the walls high and reinforced, with domed wiring preventing escape. Around the pit wooden stands were built into the concrete, all with perfect viewing of the spectacle below. As the nobles filed away, Daud gained altitude, eying something that looked like claw marks gouged deep into the stone of the pit. His heart pounded in his ears and some of Rulfio's earlier warnings replayed in his head. But there was little he could do now; he was here, and so was his target.

Movement below caught his attention and he flattened down as the nobles filed in. He noticed that they no longer had their dogs; only Crone remained with his master, the rumble of his throat audible even from Daud's precarious position. In the arena, Fink walked out, to both boos and applause. He was taller and slimmer than his brother and brandished a top hat as he took a bow to the crowd.

“Good to see you! Now, do we have some new challenger who is ready to face the Beast tonight?” The stout noble drew himself up, Crone straining in his collar and against his muzzle. On his command the dog stilled, all contained energy and corded strength. Howard looked to the dog and grinned venomously. “Well then, put him in while I go grab my contender. Will Crone be the one to win, I wonder?”

The nobles cheered, placing their bets. The man opened a door and strode Crone to the center of the pit. Sensing it was soon to fight, the dog strained against his bonds, whining and eager. His owner removed the muzzle and leash, backed out, and secured the heavy door. The hound began to circle the pit, sniffing, even pissing on a corner. The crowd hollered, laughing at the dog, calling for his opponent. All the while, Daud silently watched, nose curled to the spectacle.

After a few moments, a large hidden door at the other end of the pit opened. Something deep within rumbled and the dog turned, already growling, hackles rising. With a heavy footfall, and labored breathed, Crone's opponent appeared and Daud's mouth dropped.

Nothing could have prepared Daud for the sight below him. Fink's “Beast” was truly a beast, an unholy monster of fur and flesh. Blind eyes sat embedded in a scarred face that barely resembled a hound or a wolf, with torn ears and a bent snout. It was so much larger as well, its body far outweighing any hound or human. Its shaggy mane shook with every step; chains rattled on thick legs where sores festered painfully. In spots thing's fur was falling out in chunks, revealing welted, scabbed skin. Its lip curled. Its head tossed back.

And then the thing screeched.

Daud's blood ran cold and even the pit hound took pause. The sound wasn't anything of this world; it shook the room, reverberated in his chest, the notes reading of sadness and pain and anger, so much anger. It sounded of Void, of monsters of the deep, of screaming whales more than howling dogs.

Daud gripped tight to the knife in his hand to stop his arm from shaking. He had never known such fear, not in his entire life.

“Go Crone! You know what to do!”

Daud's fear would have to wait, for the dog was suddenly moving, despite its own cautions about what was just put before it. The dog was seasoned; it circled the Beast, silent, lip curling back. The monster sniffed loudly, its own lips revealing huge fangs, following the dog blindly by scent alone. Another screech and the chained beast was lunging, tail lashing, drool flying, snapping for its victim.

But the hound had advantage of size; it dodged easily, rushing the monster's exposed face. Needle sharp fangs sunk into the monster's flesh, puncturing its scarred nose, pulling and jerking. The Beast roared, head shaking, blood splattering.

Still Crone hung on, kicking at the monster's chained neck. The nobles cheered.

“That's my boy, Crone!! First blood! Drown its sense of smell!”

The hound snarled, fangs working, grinding down, as the monster thrashed. As the flesh threatened to pull away the Beast decided enough was enough; blood flying, he threw his head straight into the floor of the pit. The dog yelped, letting go, its body bouncing away as the beast raised its head again, hoping to crush the prey it thinks is still below it.

But Crone was too fast. The dog darted away, tail tucked, mouth covered in his enemies blood as his fangs flashed white. He jumped again, this time for the torn ears. He connected again, his blinded and disabled opponent unable to sense the attack. It shrieked out its unholy cry as flesh stripped away, the dog taking the remnant of the ear away with it. It spit it out; now the huge brute was bleeding from the nose and the ear, and the crowd was happy to see the dog winning.

But the night was young, and the Beast had size and stamina on its side. Still the dog lunged, chunked away and sprang back from the monster's attacks. It circled, parried, dodged and bit, again and again. Soon the Beast was bleeding everywhere, its grey fur darkened to match the rivers of red running over it. It was a war of attrition that the dog was slowly winning.

And as Daud looked, it became apparent why.

It was just like the bull fights of Cullero, back home in Serkonos. From the outside, it looked exceptional, a daring act of a matador dodging the attacks of an enraged bull many times his size. But looks are deceiving; the bulls were drugged, enraged, and slowly stabbed to death. Here, it was no different. The Beast staggered, handicapped. It was chained at the feet, its movement hindered. And the collar it wore spiked inward, causing pressure on its huge throat.

It was all a show. A parade.

So why were no past dogs winning?

Crone lunged again. The crowd cheered, egging the hound on. And the hound bit down, right for the jugular. Blood spurted from the wound and the beast choked: it staggered, falling over as the vein flowed hot. Crone pulled at the wound, opening it and his owner roared with enthusiasm. His dog had won; he killed the unkillable, and his prize pool would be tremendous. While excited the dog won, disappointed murmurs abounded that the Beast hadn't put up much of a show. As the life of the beast spilt itself on the ground and the noble went to collect his dog, Daud turned away. He'd seen enough.

Then, everything shifted.

He felt it in his bones first, then in his nose. The acrid smell grew and when he looked back it was as if the beast was smoking, its body steaming from its wounds and openings. Eyes blindly searched and new scars sealed and the beast rumbled as it drew its giant body upright once again. The noble shouted. The dog whined and barked and snarled. Though previously dead, the Beast drew breath once again and screamed.

It was like it all happened in slow motion. The dog lunged as the beast swept a huge paw out, nails glistening and looking for the kill. Thosr claws struck the man just as the dog struck the Beast’s lip and it was all over; the man's stomach was ripped asunder. He barely had a moment to process before collapsing, his guts flung across the arena. The dog clung on, the Beast screeched and the nobles scattered, screaming. The dog unlatched from the beast and took off for the door, leaving his dead owner behind. The monster then turned to the body, sniffing it once before sinking fangs in with a disgusting squelch.

Daud blanched. He ran, looking for the closest escape. He understood now why nobody returned from this contract; they were beast food. They were food for an unholy monster of the Void! He tried to even his breathing, tried not to panic even as his arms shook and his heart pounded and his senses told him to run, run, run!

He couldn't. Not yet. He had a contract and more importantly, a fucking bet.

This nightmare clearly needed to end.

Daud left the roaring beast in the pit, left it to its macabre meal as he searched for the back entrances while dodging screaming and scattering nobles. Many were freeing their dogs, some were leaving everything behind, none of them wanted near that pit. Even when he was  mere feet away they paid no attention to Daud, being rightly more preoccupied with escape. He slipped to the back tunnels easily, readying his wristbow as he went.

The deeper he went into the pit's tunnels the more disgusting incrimination on Howard Fink he found. Daud liked to think he was doing some kind of good while assassinating targets; he liked to only take contracts that he felt deserved it. But this man… he was on another level. The Beast he kept was tortured, caged for days or weeks, fed next to nothing so that when dogs fight, it feeds. Countless hound bones scattered the pits and as he felt the rumble of the monster in the distance, he couldn't help but wonder how many humans were buried under those canine skeletons.

Voices ahead alerted him of Fink and his brother; it was an argument, the words reaching his ears sounding hushed, angered, and sharp.

“I don't care if this doesn't usually happen! You should have been in the ring to prevent this!”

“What, so I could have died instead? And how was I supposed to know a cut to the jugular wouldn't kill a whale-wolf?”

“I think the real olephant in the room is that you knew the dog couldn't kill it anyway! What is that smoking magic it uses?”

“I don't know, but we have to sedate it. We have to sedate him before--”

Howard's brother crumpled before his very eyes. He started and turned; he had been rummaging through his things, back to the tunnel opening.  Now he pulled out a pistol, steadying it at the tunnel as he bent to check his brother.

“Eustace! Damnit, Eustace?”

“He's only asleep, if that's what you're wondering,” Daud supplied smoothly, tossing his knife in his hand. Fink shot blind; Daud dodged and threw the knife, smiling as he saw it slice Fink's hand right open. The man cried, the gun dropping as he staggered up and back away from the assassin.

“Wh-who are you? What do you want?”

“Unfortunately I am here for your life, Fink,” Daud said casually, pulling out his Whaler blade. “Your brother should make it out just fine, though, given the hour or so it takes the sedative to wear off.”

Fink stuttered, his wounded hand bleeding free, his eyes shining with tears.

“You don't understand. We're all dead now. We're all dead.”

Daud frowned, crouching low, weapon at the ready.

“Actually, I plan on leaving here very much alive. You, however…”

Daud lunged forward, blade shining, aimed straight for his target.

But his human speed was no match for the paw that swiped him right at his side.

It hit him like a freighter, tossing him into the wall of the sewer like a ragdoll. The air left his lungs and he felt a crack. He fought for breath even as sharp pains told him it was his rib that was destroyed, perhaps more than one. Still, he managed to flatten himself to the wall, rolling to the side as an added measure. Hearing screams he looked over, hand on his side, his head swimming dangerously.

Fink was pinned to the tunnel wall, squirming under the blind stare of the monster before him. Wounds healed and meal finished, it had somehow escaped and the blood of Fink's wound meant had beelined here. Daud's eyes frantically flicked between Fink and the monster and weighed his options just as a booming voice crashed through the room around them.

“Monster,” the voice roared, so deep and powerful Daud nearly fainted. “You made me a monster! Fink!”

“Please, please, just kill me, please--”

Daud's head spun. This thing was speaking to Fink? How? Daud fumbled at his belt, searching for his next weapon. He hissed and pulled a new blade out, eying the fresh cut that it had sliced right through his glove.

The monster's nose twitched and its head swiveled. It roared, lunging right for Daud. With less than a second to aim, Daud threw his knife right at Fink.

The blade sliced into Fink's throat just as ragged, nasty nails smashed into Daud's jaw. He couldn't yell because he felt his jaw break and his throat filled with blood, his blood, oh Void oh spirits--. Immediately his hand flew to his neck, trying to assess damage, but it was all too hot and his face all too cold, all too quickly. He coughed, choked and faintly he heard the monster wailing, heard it turning to the dead body of Fink, but Daud was dying too, it didn't matter, none of it mattered.

Outsider's cock and balls, Daud couldn't help but think. I really wanted to win that damned bet.

The world greyed. Everything went cold as Daud hit the floor. Even the roars of the beast sounded muffled, far away. His neck burbled, the blood hot on his gloved fingers, in his ear, over his face.

As he stared at the ceiling and waited out the inevitable, another figure swam into his vision. It wasn't Fink, but a boy. A boy with black hair and black clothes and black eyes and Daud blinked at him, confused. The boy shook his head, leaning over his dying body.

“Oh Daud, you have no idea what kind of bet you just won.”

The boy's voice was as cold as the dead and just as final. Long fingers reached down and grasped at his face and suddenly he was so frozen his body was burning from it, his face shattering and stretching and his limbs on fire. He was alive, he was dead, he was feeling too much and too little and experiencing everything and nothing all at once.

He opened his mouth and screamed.

The next moments flashed by like a dream. He was reborn and remade, his body burning and churning and new and so powerful, so strong in a way it had never been before. He roared and screamed and the Beast, so large before, was now no more than a whimpering dog. A voice cried in his head for mercy, to wait, but he hated it, he hated this sad worm of a creature that ate humans and dogs and tried to get into his head with thoughts and emotions that weren't his own. He tore into the monster and it roared and cried and screamed, again and again and again.

Eventually his fever dream passed and he was left, stranded, covered in the blood of someone, something, else. He breathed, heaved at the smells assaulting his senses, and collapsed, broken and dying, remembering nothing more.

Chapter Text

Dunwall, Gristol

Month of Clans -- 1820

He woke with a gasp that burned and seared and lit his body on fire. He drew breath with a cough so painful it cracked his ribs and pulled him apart, fighting every aching inhale. Moving was an agony. His face and throat screamed at him as he rolled over, his fists clenching and teeth gnashing to try and quell the cry that threatened to burst out of him. 

He settled for a muffled, tortured groan. His arms were bruised to the Void and back, but he pulled himself up, heaved an empty stomach, then lurched, willing his unresponsive body upright against a cold and slime-covered wall. 

Daud breathed, in and out. He opened an eye only to find the world spinning dangerously, vertigo threatening his senses. He winced, shutting his eyes and trying to simply calm the rushing in his ears and head. Every pulse of his heart throbbed into his aching face, the sear of it blinding. Slowly, he lifted a shaking, gloved hand to delicately grace his features. The touch was tiny, as gingerly as he could manage, and still the pain screamed through him, sending shockwaves all the way down his spine and chest. The huge divot in his skin turned his stomach and his fingers pulled away, feeling sticky. Infection was setting in; not a good sign. He cracked his good eye open again, trying to focus on his hand in the gloom. He could feel shock setting into his limbs and he squeezed his fist, open and closed. He breathed, swallowed his nausea, and clung to the wall for dear life. 

He should be dead. The wound on his face was beyond standard repair. He could practically feel his pulse jumping out of his neck; there was no reason that his jugular shouldn't be spilling his blood everywhere. He shuddered and coughed and tasted iron. Sweat beaded up on his forehead and his grip on reality loosened. It was too much, all too much. The fever and bile hit him hard and all at once. His eyes rolled back and Daud crumpled to the floor again, swiftly slipping into unconsciousness.

------

He jerked violently out of his second bout of sleep. Or could it be called sleep? He hadn't dreamt of anything, he had no idea how long he'd been out, and he remembered nothing of what he had been doing… 

But the smell.  Oh Void, the smell.

It smashed into his face like a sucker punch, the offense of it causing his brain to derail into survival mode. His nose wrinkled and a hiss escaped him, the odor assaulting him like an enemy. The pull on his features renewed the pain lancing all down the right of his face -- and the memory of his wound struck him like a crossbow bolt. He checked his hand -- still gloved -- before more tenderly touching fingertips to throat; the wound was, somehow, healing, but in the most festering way possible. The masses of gouged skin were scabbed, but he could feel the flesh at the edges, angry and red and swollen. He cursed under his breath; oh yes, definitely infected. He could feel the heat of the fever on his skin and when he tried to stand, his head swam. Still, he willed his feet to remain steady; he needed a proper assessment on what in the Void he was dealing with here. The world tilted as he stood, but at least his legs were relatively injury-free. Despite his swollen shut eye, Daud collected himself, sneered through the gloom, and what he saw nearly sent him reeling again. 

He was in a sewer. It was dark as sin; here and there, the light of the upper world managed to gently filter through. Not that it mattered. He didn't need to see in the dark to know the place was full of death; at the edge of his gloomy vision, the humps of discarded bodies festered and bloated. He felt carefully for the wall and shimmied away from the offensive odor of rot and decay, forcing his brain to play catch up, to try and remember why he was even here in the first place. 

Only flashes came to the forefront; tiny, disjointed moments that meant nothing to him without any context. Something large and furred had clawed his face, but there was no way a wolfhound could have inflicted this kind of damage. Perhaps he was misremembering; maybe it had grabbed his neck with its teeth. Silently, fingertips brushed three, four long marks, the longest slash dancing from right forehead to throat, right through his eye-- no tooth would have made lines like that. He worked his jaw and immediately regretted the action, his whole head throbbing in protest. 

It didn't matter what had attacked him, he decided, just that it had. And if he didn't get the wound cleaned as soon as possible, the infection could still kill him yet.

His whole body shuddered. He didn't stick around to identify any bodies. 

As he left his tunnel for another, the smell of death made way for the smell of sewage -- which frankly, wasn't much better. Blood and grime clung to him like a shroud and he tried desperately to recall why. He counted his knives; he was missing two of them, realizing belatedly they were probably back from where he had come. After some deliberation, he decided it would be easier to just replace them than collect them, but it wouldn't come cheap. The bigger hit, though, was his whaler blade. He missed the weight of it at his side, grimacing at ever considering it to be good luck. A blade was a blade, and now that needed replacing too. 

Missing knives, missing blade, dead bodies. With this in mind, he could surmise he was on a job and with a job came a contract. Did he have the information on him? He padded down his jacket, the crinkle of paper faint in his ears. 

He reached a spot where enough readable daylight filtered down and decided to pause, searching his pockets. He procured sleep darts, three trap mines, and the contract details. Daud's eyes unfolded the pages, smoothing creases as he skimmed the words, digesting them carefully. 

Brimsley. Fink. Dog ring hit. A sizable bounty… Rulfio was supposed to have a cut. But where was he? A flash of memory tells him Rulfio backed out, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He'd have hated going back to that blood-torn room just to look for Rulfio's rotting body. 

Reading over the details, more and more memories fell into place. Daud had followed the men and their hounds, had watched the dog fight a monster that couldn't die, had fled to kill Fink and collect the bounty, and then…

Blind eyes. An inhuman scream. Claws rending his entire face to ribbons. 

He remembered all of that, the holes in his recollection filling like a puzzle. But anything following confronting Fink and getting attacked by a monster was gone. Nothing to pull from.

By all accounts, he should be dead. Very dead. Daud massaged his jaw on instinct, surprised to find it still whole. He was sure it had broken, his jugular bursting, his face shattered. He had been bleeding out. Nothing could've fixed that bad of a wound. 

His mind's eye supplied him the vision of a giant monster's throat bubbling, gurgling, then somehow repairing. He felt his scratches, remembering the hot blood that should've been pouring from them, his own blood leaving far too quickly to be replaced… and yet…

And yet. 

His heart rate quickened and his head and throat throbbed. He did his best to still the rising panic in his bones and let his mind rationalize. His neck was different from some monster who used magic to come back to life, to heal completely. He didn't use black magic. Maybe he was just damned lucky, not that he was out of the woods yet. Daud was alive, but still in considerable pain. He was wounded. His head spun dangerously with every stray thought. He needed to get looked at, to make sure he didn't die of infection. 

But first, he needed to get paid. 

He tucked the contract safely away and gathered himself the best he could. He was near the surface now; he could hear the people passing by, the shouts of guards and teachers and sellers alike. He wandered the tunnels, looking for a maintenance shaft, some way out before he was unceremoniously swept away into the Wrenhaven. He was actually near an exit when something caught his eye, glinting in the light by a blocked off drainage pipe. 

It was his sword. Nearly washed away, stopped by a grate. The opening wasn't large enough for him to crawl out of, but through it, Dunwall Tower was visible, where the Kaldwins and their servants sat cushy and protected.

Daud grunted, holding no love lost for nobles and their affairs. He pulled the blade free, feeling for the notch. It caught in the thumb of his glove, nearly drawing blood, and Daud smiled. 

“Lucky,” he muttered, sheathing the blade. His voice rasped painfully but he paid it no mind, just happy he still had a voice in the first place. 

------

The Brimsley estate was huge and conspicuous and easy to infiltrate. Daud had few issues finding it and even fewer issues scaling the wall, even in his injured state. He was a mess; he didn't care. He didn't care that he stank of death, that his clothes were soaked black-red from a stranger's blood. He didn't care that half of his face was ripped open, raw and ragged and showing every swollen edge. A part of him revelled in it, couldn't wait to feed off the look on his contractor's face when Brimsley eventually found the assassin relaxing on the balcony, enjoying the warm, late spring evening. 

His blade sat on his leg, the whetstone running cleanly across it. Every pass caused the metal to sing and smile in the dying light of the day. He felt the wind shift and heard a door close; he didn't pause his easy movement. There were two muffled voices chatting amicably, but they paused as Daud's stone ran along steel and interrupted all conversation. 

Voices hushed to whispers that seemed to shout in Daud's all-too-sensitive ears. He grinned, adjusted his hood, then looked up as footsteps approached. 

Brimsley screamed. 

He recoiled from Daud so hard he nearly fell over; actually, he would have, if his assistant hadn't been there, gripping his arm and keeping him upright. A tray of tea spilled across the floor but nobody paid it any heed, not when Daud sat across on the balcony, looking like death warmed over. 

His smile was easy, if not pained. Brimsley swiftly pissed himself. 

"Brimsley." He pulled the contract from his pocket, and put his blade back into its sheath. His eyes flicked to the assistant and he stood, pulling at the edges of his hood. He walked over to Brimsley and the man, realizing that Daud was real, stammered into speaking. 

"D-Daud…" he forced out, and Daud's eyes flashed, watching Brimsley carefully. "What happened? We all thought you died--"

His eyebrow quirked. "We?"

"It's been five days, Daud." 

Something in his brain halted. He hadn't seen a calendar, a paper, nothing. He just came here and planned on dealing with all of the other important matters after he had the money to pay for it. But five days? He stiffened, alarms in his head blaring. 

"The contract is fulfilled, just like you wanted, Brimsley." He shoved the paper with the man's signature on it into his chest. "My partner and I. The full payment. Now, if you know what's good for you." 

"You completed the contract? Then--"

"The Beast is dead. So is Fink. Which means you won't be putting out dangerous contracts trapping assassins into a death ring anymore, now, will you?"

Brimsley blanched. Daud's scowl grew severe, and something in his stare unhinged the noble. He was sweating, breaking eye contact, before waving at his assistant to go get the promised sum. He tried looking at Daud, but could not manage it without retching. 

"Y-your face… how did you survive?"

"What's wrong? Disappointed?" Daud growled, his throat burning from the effort. "Sad I didn't turn into dog food, too? How convenient it would have been for me to die like the others. You can be sure I won't forget about this bullshit any time soon, Brimsley." 

"You can't kill me... I'm your employer!"

"Maybe today you are," Daud said, eyes tracking the return of the assistant, now carrying a hefty purse. "But tomorrow… a different client, and different contract. You never know if you'll be in the list." He aggressively pulled the purse from the assistant, then silently counted the coin. Everything was there -- everything but Rulfio's cut. Daud snarled.

"My partner is still alive. You'll give me his cut too, if you enjoy your head still existing between your shoulders." 

Brimsley nodded, and the assistant was pushed away again. Daud tossed the purse in his hand before pocketing it, his face starting to burn and itch in the most unpleasant of fashions. When he next looked at Brimsley, he caught the man staring at the wounds and he bared his teeth involuntarily.

"Get Sokolov to paint me, if you want the memory to last longer." He sneered, tempted to put a hand over the wound. He doesn't; Daud never showed such weakness in front of a client. It was easier to get what he needed from contractors when he was as intimidating as possible, with or without having to resort to his blade. But something in Brimsley's gaze made him uncomfortable, the hair prickling along his neck, his hand twitching at his side before curling into a fist. He held Brimsley's stare until the man grew too uncomfortable to keep the contact, the noble's shivering frame growing sweaty. 

"How did he look?" Brimsley asked, his voice hushed and breathy. "Was he wonderful? The Outsider's beast in that basement?" He then looked back to Daud. "You're one now too, aren't you?" 

Daud's whaler sword was at Brimsley's neck in an instant. Brimsley flinched, but there was a smile lingering there that was vile and Daud wanted nothing more than to wipe it from his face permanently. He almost did, but the assistant returned, carrying the purse of coin slated for Rulfio. This time, Daud didn't stay to count the coin; he simply took the pouch, secured it, and left Brimsley's office as silently and stealthily as he came, his anger roaring in his ears.

------

It was late evening by the time Daud neared his current hideout: a small apartment outside of Slaughterhouse Row. The smell of whale oil was never pungent enough to scare him off like it had other residents, but now, as he pushed his way in through the door, closing it heavily with a shoulder, it was so offensive that it burned his nose and caused his head to throb. Not that it wasn't already stabbing him with pain; every movement and exertion pulled at his wounds and he could feel the blood and puss seeping unpleasantly. Nauseous and fevered, he pushed himself to the bathroom, testing to see if the water was running clean today. 

It was; he thanked the Void and immediately began stripping down. His clothes were black for a reason; the stains of blood and dirt wouldn't be so noticeable, but the stench was cloying at his nostrils like never before. Since when did he become so sensitive to such things? He grimaced at the rancid smell before filling the sink with water and  throwing his shirt in, letting it soak in the lye while he pulled off his remaining articles and started a shower. As the room began to steam, he forgot himself for a moment, reflexively looking towards his movement in the mirror. 

And finally, he was face to face with the reality of his injury.

Daud paled, the color draining from his cheeks in real time. He would have vomited if there was anything actually in his stomach besides some nicked bread and an apple. Instead, he swallowed on the bile, taking a careful, shaking step towards the mirror.

His right eye was near swollen shut, black and purple from the bruising all around the socket. The shiner was green on the edges, before getting lost in the infected red surrounding the nasty slices in his skin. And what slices they were; they were actually thinner than he expected them to be, but deep and vicious all the same. The longest and most painful one was the one bifurcating the whole of his right face; he traced it gingerly down from forehead to neck, his pulse fluttering where the scratch fell over his jaw, his jugular… 

Daud swallowed again and the wounds visibly protested. He shut his eyes, trying not to let his head swim from the scent and sight of his own skin. He uncoiled his hands, flexing, before rooting through the cabinet behind the mirror. He quickly pulled out some peroxide, some disinfecting ointment, some fancy Sokolov concoction he got after an old contract was paid, and a soft sponge. He carefully poured the peroxide on the sponge first; he hissed and snarled as the sponge hit the wounds, the sound rippling through him dangerously. He slowed; the second growl was more of a suppressed groan as he eased into the pain. He then wrung out the sponge, letting the blood and infection wash away. He then got into the shower, reveling in the scalding water and trying not to pay attention to all of the blood and grime and stink washing away from his weary body. 

In the steam and under the pounding drops of water, he finally let his mind relax and wander. It wasn't long before his thoughts became intrusive; five days was a lot of days to be laying half dead in a sewer with nobody to find him. What if he had died? He supposed Rulfio would be the only one to go looking, and who's to say he actually would? Maybe to make a point, win the bet, maybe piss on Daud's corpse. He wouldn't blame him.  

No. It wasn't like Rulfio to be that petty, and even if they were just business partners, they were still partners. For the past year or so, they had come to work well together and as it turns out, two assassins are better than one. Not many in their profession were willing to let others in on their trade secrets-- plus, stealth work was traditionally best done alone. But with Rulfio, he and Daud had been able to double their output. He never had such good contracts. Even if they just did business together, it was lucrative; he would still be hiding in abandoned buildings like a homeless rat instead of in an old apartment that was heated and even had hot, running water. Blessings like that were few and far between in Dunwall, with exception given to the military and noble houses.

Nobles. Daud spat in the shower, watching bloody phlegm swim around the drain. They paid well, but Daud hated every single one he's ever met. What good did they bring the world? Hoarded coins like dragons, partied while children starved and died. Commissioned bridges in their name instead of paying their workers fair wages. His face ached from the rage simmering just under his skin. His teeth itched, and he rolled a tongue over them, wondering what other unexpected side effects his gnarly wound was going to give him. 

The water ran cold all too soon and Daud shivered as he pulled himself out, hardly toweling off as his tired body stumbled over itself. He had half a mind still to pull the Sokolov elixir out; he downed it in one full swig, then turned to the ointment as some strength returned to him. He dressed the wounds in a half haze, his vision beginning to blur from fever and tiredness. It was a messy job, but he was far too gone to care. As long as he slept on his back, he'd be fine. He was sure of it. 

What he wasn't sure of after that was how he even made it to the rickety mattress on the other side of the apartment, throwing himself heavily onto it, swiftly letting the Void take him. 

------

He tried to get through the days as normal. He really did. But every day passing was another day that the wound didn't heal right, or at all, until all Daud knew was the searing, itching heat of his wounded skin. It dominated his days, his nights; everything in between was fevered and sensitive. He heard whales crying, but not like the keening from the slaughterhouse he's used to; these cries were screams of torture, of whales falling into the Void where their bodies were destined to be desecrated for the whims of a bottomless city. 

He tried to conduct business, but it was no use; his scabs were too much of a deterrent. He couldn't chance bandaging the wounds so he left them exposed, and if anyone saw him, they were terrified into vacating his premise. His self-consciousness, usually non-existent, bubbled up in his chest until finally, in a fevered state, body shaking and his breath ragged, he entered the slaughterhouse and stole a whaler mask. The smell of it was pungent and unforgettable; he resisted the urge to regurgitate (everything smelled ten times worse, everything was too much and he still didn't have the piece of mind to wonder why) and placed the mask cleanly over his face, hiding the worst of his facial offenses. Later that same night he couldn't help but notice how, even in the mirror, the long muzzle of the whaler mask suited him in a way he couldn't place. It satisfied something primal in his chest, unlocking a door that he never knew was closed. His chest swelled. He wrestled with the urge to sing. 

He sneered. He never sang. 

The mirror suddenly disturbed him, those glass eyes too empty, too all-knowing. He snarled, a sound that now caught in his throat and rumbled through his whole being violently, but he saw it as nothing more than his ruined vocal cords yelling at him for even attempting to make a sound. 

It wasn't long after that he started looking for Rulfio. It was slow going-- over a week now and his fever still hadn't broken, he still felt weaker than he ever had-- but Daud also had a heavy purse full of a noble's blood money that he owed another assassin. However, with their last contract so far behind them (and as far as Rulfio knew, Daud was dead), tracking his partner across Dunwall was becoming an annoying chore. 

Rulfio didn't have a lot of haunts. He had a few regular places, but even when Daud patrolled them, Rulfio never showed up. It made him itch, his whole body full of agitation. It was unlike the assassin; Rulfio was a man of routine. It's what made him so excellent at his job; he could count down the seconds to a kill, a literal metronome, patient and meditative. Every kill was perfectly timed, perfectly planned. So, to see him being something akin to unpunctual was too much to bear. Daud jumped off to a different roof, trying not to fear the worst for Rulfio's safety. 

There was one haunt he had been avoiding; their old meetup spot. Something in Daud had nagged at him to visit sooner, but it felt redundant; Daud was a no-show to a meeting, and if an assassin was a no-show, it's best to assume they're face down in a rat-filled ditch. So what was the point in stalking that particular part of Dunwall? The city was huge -- miles across, even -- and Rulfio could choose to be anywhere. So why would he be on a familiar rooftop, waiting for a ghost to appear?

His boots landed heavy on the old concrete, muscle memory catching him before he stumbled. The potted plant overlooking a blood red sunset looked no better than it had two weeks ago, and unswept leaves scattered about his feet as he walked. Everything was untouched from his last visit-- and yet, the hair of his neck prickled, sensing immediately that he was not alone. A dark figure in the corner shifted and Daud's vision bee-lined on it, his fist clenching in apprehension. 

"Come on out, then," he growled out, the words muffled behind the thick respirator the mask offered. Even so, the individual jerked and twisted at the sound of his voice. They stood up, spinning on him with a wild, desperate expression. 

"Daud? That better be you, you bastard, and not Jordan playing another prank on me--" 

Daud's breath hitched and he relaxed, straightening out of the predatory stance he'd taken. Rulfio scrambled forward, then slowed, eyeing the mask critically. "It is you, isn't it? Daud-- Spirits--..." The man hesitated, then grasped at Daud's arm, as if to make sure he was real, and not some smoke-induced mirage. Daud huffed. 

"Of course it's me, Rulfio, I'm the only other person who would even think to look for you here." That seemed to ease all of Rulfio's remaining fears. He looked Daud over and stepped back, his nose curling at the mask. 

"Outsider's ass, Daud, you crazy bastard. What the fuck happened? It's been weeks."  

Daud turned his head away, not bearing to look Rulfio straight on even through the heavy whaler mask. In response, he pushed the coin purse into Rulfio's hand. 

"Contract's done. Fink is dead. And I made sure Brimsley coughed up your respective pay." Rulfio looked at the money in disbelief; mouth agape, he counted through the coin. Daud tilted his head, triumphant. "Told you I'd win our bet." 

Rulfio huffed a laugh, the edges of his beard crinkling in a smile. "You really are a son of the Outsider, you know that, Daud? Shit." He then gave the mask a more critical eye, his eyes flicking to Daud's visible sliver of neck. Daud stiffened, and a very strong part of his brain wished to flee as far and fast as his body could take him.

He stayed, fist clenched. 

"So, what's up with the mask? Not like you to hide your face." 

Daud shifted, and the mask jerked as he looked around. "My face has been bad for business."

"Bad for business?" Rulfio laughed, unbelieving. "Get better lies, Daud. You're always the face of our contracts, as if you wanna be the most famous assassin in Dunwall." 

Daud huffed, his breath hot on the leather.

"Just-- look. You'll see what I mean." He unlatched the mask, unraveling the sizing band and pulling the article off his face. 

Rulfio's expression dropped. His eyes darted away, then he covered his mouth, muffling a curse. Daud's stomach turned at the reaction.

"Daud? What the fuck? What the fuck?" 

"The cheater in the contract had a souped up dog, or something." A monster, an abomination of flesh and fur. "It hit me, but I was able to walk away alive." 

"Are you sure?" Rulfio's voice painfully broke on the question. His fists curled, quivering at his sides. "Daud, have you seen yourself?"  

Daud sneered, the skin of face pulling and itching unpleasantly. He smothered the urge to claw the wounds open. "You asked why I'm wearing a mask, and then you ask if I've seen my own reflection lately? Are you an idiot, Rulfio? Of course I know how bad this looks!" His hand gestured to his face, his neck, his pulse suddenly throbbing against the wounds. "I'm not dead yet, and besides, I still owed you your cut of the profits!"

"You should have died," Rulfio said softly, his voice barely a whisper but ringing all too loudly in Daud's ears. "That wound… there's no way it hit your neck and didn't sever your jugular. How are you still alive?" 

Daud's ears filled with rushing wind. He snarled, showing his teeth. Rulfio stepped back, his eyes on Daud's expression. Daud caught the movement; he exhaled, deflating. 

"Lucky, I guess."

Rulfio's face was unconvinced, his eyes dark under heavy brows. 

"There's something you're not telling me, Daud."

In his brain, Daud replayed the memory of that giant whale of a wolf, that disgusting, shredded monster and it's neck, sizzling and smoking and knitting itself back together. Instinctively, he brought a hand up to his neck, stopping just short of ripping at his wounds, at giving in to that bone-deep ache and gouging new, fresh lines into his skin. Rulfio watched the movement, his eyes holding too much concern, and Daud hated it. He was an assassin, for fuck's sake. He wasn't some child, and even when he was, he was already killing, shoving sharp bits of metal into his assailant's eyes. He didn't need the pity resting in Rulfio's black eyes. 

He growled, anger boiling hot under his skin, but Daud didn't give in to his urges. His hand dropped, his breathing hard and his ears ringing. 

"It's nothing you need to worry about Rulf. I dealt with it weeks ago." 

Had he? Something told him yes, you did, but he had no memory, nothing to say that the giant dog was actually dead and buried. 

Just… an instinct. An unreliable, unnecessary, instinct. 

"Yeah, and I'm looking at the blood money result of that, right?" Rulfio huffed, turning from Daud to look at the setting sun. "So, picked up any other contracts since then?" 

Sensing the conversation shifting but also feeling his limbs buzzing unpleasantly, Daud pushed the mask back up over his face. There was a comfort in hiding behind it, though Rulfio didn't seem to share his sentiment. He watched the mask slip back on with disdain. 

"It doesn't suit you."

"I don't remember asking your opinion," Daud shot back, defensive. 

Rulfio shrugged. Daud sighed, the air hissing out the respirator. 

"I have not picked up any contracts," Daud supplied, answering Rulfio's earlier question. "I wanted to get you your payment first, that and…" he trailed off, his shrug trying to hide his unease. "These scratches have been a liability for clients. Believe it or not, my face really is bad for business, right now." 

"Can't imagine why," Rulfio needled him, and Daud prickled in response. Rulfio seemed to sense his annoyance and just smirked. He walked back over to Daud, pulling a stack of papers out of his pockets. "Got a few that I picked up, seemed like they might be good for--well, for me, at least." He passes the paper to Daud. "Most of these are enough for a singular assassin to accomplish, no problem. If you need work, you could probably take one of these off me." 

Daud nodded, looking through each contract. One was for offing a sex offender, another of just stealing a gem from a noble for a noble, another was a hit for killing-- Daud growled and balled that piece of paper up, throwing it over the roof. Rulfio looked at him, protesting, but Daud held up a hand.

"I don't murder kids, you know that," he murmured, dangerous. Rulfio stiffened, then looked at where the crumpled paper had fallen, three stories down. Rulfio murmured out an apology, an 'I must've misread that one in the pile," but Daud shoved him off before finally taking a contract out of the stack. 

"It's fine. I got my hit." Rulfio looked at him curiously, but Daud pointed to the fine print.

Seeking a headhunter for con man Eustace Fink, who led my brothers to what I can only assume was a drowning under the Hound Pits Pub. Will be willing to part with 200 silver for anyone who can find and apprehend this criminal for me.

The post mark was two weeks ago. Rulfio wrinkled his nose in clear disgust. 

"200 silver? No wonder nobody has taken that job, it's not paying nearly enough."

"That's fine; it's my hit anyway."

"What? Daud, you're worth double that in gold, it's not like you to sell yourself short."

"I'm not-- this is-- do you not recognize the name?" Every syllable dripped with more hatred; Daud could nearly feel his body ripple with the anger. "This is the brother of the man I nearly died killing." And he knows shit I don't, Daud all but growled out. Rulfio raised an eyebrow. 

"Revenge, huh? Suits you as much as that mask does," Rulfio murmured. "Are you sure you're gonna be okay, Daud?"

He folded the contract into his jacket, pulling his hood up. His movements were jerky, pained. 

"I'll be fine, Rulf. Don't follow me on this one. I'll handle it on my own and see you here when it's finished." 

"You can keep the 200 silver, Daud," he laughed, but Daud was already hopping from the rooftop, leaving Rulfio and his words behind. 

Eustace Fink would have answers, he reasoned to himself. He knew what his brother had been up to, was complicit in the act. So when Daud found him, he'd be sure wring every dirty little secret out of him before slicing his neck open like a disgraced  lover. 

Chapter Text

Dunwall, Gristol

Month of Clans -- 1820

Daud set up a meeting with the contract creator the next night. It gave him time to prepare, to consider his options and perhaps, to look a little less frightful for the person he wished to work with. The address given on the contract was nondescript; a small general practitioner's office, tucked away in Draper's Ward and identified by the universal dual-snake staff on the window. Daud chose to drop by after hours, of course; no need for others to see the owner conversing with an assassin. He had planted an earlier note to say he would be visiting unconventionally but the individual inside the office room still jumped when suddenly a whaler mask was knocking gently at the upstairs office window.

It was a small man with a round face and large eyebrows that greeted Daud, glasses getting pushed up as he quickly came over, unlatching the terrace doors and allowing the assassin entry. Daud slipped in, silent and stealthy despite the tremble in his hands and shoulders. He hadn't expected his client to be a doctor and quietly hoped the man wouldn't pay close enough attention to ask questions. 

"Thank you for finally getting back to me on this contract," the man -- Misha Romanov, if Daud remembered the contract properly -- nervously said, looking over Daud. His eyes trailed from the mask and hood to the black clothes to the whaler blade at his side. He swallowed, clearly intimidated, walking around the office to physically put distance between the two of them. Daud tilted his head, clicking his tongue. 

"You've never hired a hitman before," Daud remarked, posing it more as an annoyed observation than a question. It was clear; from the man's unease to the amount of coin offered, he was a novice when it came to dealing with and understanding the job he was asking for. Perhaps this was a bad idea after all; but Daud was here, and it would be ludicrous to turn around now. Might as well make the best of it. 

"This is my first time, yes," Misha replied, choosing to busy himself with one of his displayed medical instruments instead of looking Daud in the glassy eye. "I have never had a need before. I try more to save lives, rather than take them, you see." He wrung his hands, then offered a small smile. "But now... my brothers are dead and I have no idea what happened to them, or their dogs. They were the only family I had left… I didn't know where else to turn." 

"Misha Romanov then, right?" The doctor nodded, confirming what he knew. "What happened to your brothers-- before they disappeared?" Daud asked, his voice muffled behind the thick mask. Misha, emboldened by the question, answered as clinically as possible, recounting how his brothers had gotten into a dog fighting business over the last few years, completely sucked in, throwing money into dogs and gambling over Fink's wagers. It had been an obsession -- one that ultimately, they didn't return from. Naturally, Misha feared the worst and blamed Eustace and Howard Fink for their disappearance. 

"I saw the one brother, Eustace, sulking near the cafe one morning soon after Adrian and Mikhail didn't return at their usual time," Misha supplied, "and that's when I knew I'd be powerless to get justice unless I hired an assassin. So I posted my contract and waited. And waited. I had almost given up on anyone taking the job, until you contacted me. Your interest in this hit is greatly appreciated."

Daud held up a frustrated hand. "Please do not offer appreciation, not until my work is done. I'm not doing this out of the kindness of my heart. I'm doing it because it's personal, and the pay is so low only someone like me would take the contract anyway. If anyone is the lucky party in this deal, trust me, it's you."

Misha blinked. "Oh? You… you know Fink?" He then blanched, his face going terrified. "You didn't work for him in the past, did you?"

"No, nothing like that," Daud said, taking a too-ragged breath. He could feel the sweat trickling down his neck, across his wounds-- even that simple contact burned. "I actually was contracted to kill Eustace's brother, Howard. The same day your brothers most likely perished, I almost died, too. Lady Luck herself is the only reason I'm still alive; the Fink brothers were into some deep, disgusting shit." 

Misha blinked, adjusting his glasses before giving Daud a more thorough look-over. Daud stiffened under the gaze, suddenly self-consciousness, and he tried to still the tremor of his limbs. 

"Are you well now? You appear in pain, or feverish." 

Of course this guy could tell. Daud cursed him for being such an astute doctor. 

"You're not being paid enough as a doctor if you can tell that just from looking me over," Daud sneered, hiding the rasp of his voice. This only furrowed the man's brow further, his tone growing serious. 

"If you need me to offer medical assistance before the mission, I'd be more than willing to--"

"I'm here for a job, doctor. Not a diagnosis."

"Right, of course, of course… But, if you're still in a state when the job is over, consider it part of the payment. I can easily add it to the contract between us, mister…?"

Void-- "Daud. Just Daud." He said, annoyed. "No Lord, no mister, no honorifics at all. I'm an assassin, not a noble." 

"Sorry, just trying to be polite. And you know my name, of course, but I can supply a business card if needed--"

"No. All I need is half payment up front, and as many details on Fink that you can provide." Misha nodded; he went to a dusty safe in the corner, opened it, and pulled out a small purse of 100 silver. Daud noticed very few valuables in the safe and wondered just how lucrative being a general practitioner was in the Draper's Ward. Or, perhaps, his gambling brothers had preyed on his meager earnings too, an addiction that drained the doctor and ultimately tore apart their family. He felt the urge to ask, to reach out and inquire, but he managed to keep his curiosity to himself. It wasn't important to the job, and it wasn't Daud's business to know how wealthy his clients were, or where they got the coin they paid him with.

Misha returned with the coin and Daud carefully pocketed it. Misha also handed over papers: they contained a few addresses, including one not too far from here. Daud frowned under the mask, his breath hissing out of the respirator. 

"That's his home and work addresses," Misha explained. "I tend to see him at this cafe, Swinney's, down off Cashmere Ave in the mornings. I pass it on my way to the clinic in the mornings." 

"That's quite a ways from here," Daud muttered, before he could stop himself. Misha just shrugged.

"The commute is long on foot, but it's what I can afford. Most nights I just stay here. Cheaper that way."

Daud said nothing. Just crumpled the paper in his hand before folding it up and tucking it away, next to his contract. 

"Do not be surprised if this takes some time. Assassination is not easy, nor is it quick in the way you expect it is. I will seek you out once the hit is complete, understood?"  

Misha nodded, and if he had any further questions, he didn't ask them. "Whatever you need to do, I suppose." 

"That's why they call it 'wet work,' Romanov," Daud told him, a hint of dark humor coloring his words. Daud then took his departure, leaving Misha and the office as silently as he had entered.

------

It should be simple. An easy set up: an easy take down. Silent, efficient, no trace to let anyone ask after. Eustace Fink was not well guarded, not spatially aware, and he was incredibly routine. Textbook, really. 

Instead, it was shaping up to be one of the hardest stake outs of Daud's career. 

He had spent a few days setting up the kill, pulling himself through the motions. He cached any necessary food, plenty of coin, and a few changes of clothes. He knew where he needed to be and when. He had all of his equipment restocked from the black market right outside of the Distillery District, where nobody asked twice about his mask or his stance. It was all ready to go. 

But of course it couldn't be that simple. Nothing of importance ever was.

It was the fourth night of his stakeout when it happened. As soon as he settled in to make the hit finally happen, his fever rolled him over like a riptide. 

It came on quickly, the nausea. He hadn't expected it; for the last week his fever had been low-grade, barely noticeable. He had, effectively, learned to ignore it. But it came roaring back up as if it was the day he spent crawling out of the sewer. One second, he was relaxing, waiting for Fink to be alone in his own home; the next he was lurching, tossing the whaler mask up and over his head just in time to empty the contents of his stomach over the side of the roof. 

It stank so bad he reeled, dry heaving again. He managed to keep the rest of it down, the sweat drenching his forehead as he wiped his mouth with the back of a clammy glove. He growled in frustration, his arms barely holding his weight, but he spent the extra moments to breathe, evening out his heartbeat and emotions. He looked over to the estate; Fink was alone. Daud felt his stomach flip again, making itself known. He swallowed back the sensation; it was now or never. 

Sickness be damned, he needed to get this hit off. 

He stood and his feet were surprisingly steady for the vertigo he was experiencing. Not that he was worried; Daud had stalked and successfully killed someone drunk before. It was a dare, one that Rulfio didn't think he would go through with, but he was even younger and cockier back then. A little head sickness was nothing compared to that job, but the thought of Rulfio sobered him enough to keep focused on the task at hand. He lithely jumped from the roof, heading to the Draper's Ward residence, as silent as a street cat. 

He kept a bead on Fink even as he felt the sweat gather on his forehead again; something in his chest felt like it wanted to burst, and Daud vaguely hoped it wasn't his heart. He slipped on a roof tile, steadied himself, then listened intently, hearing Eustace's voice float up. 

"I should be fine, but I can't help but think that I should be more worried about what happened that night. I mean-- I woke up and Howard was dead and so was that huge black magic brute. There was another person, dead in the corner, and so many unlucky bodies that didn't make it out alive… there will be questions soon. So many questions. How do they not smell it there under the Pub? Maybe the rats ate the bodies… how convenient if so. Nothing to investigate, nothing to convict. If the City Watch ever got wind of this..."

It took Daud a bit of processing to suss out if Eustace was speaking to someone else in the room, but no; the beat and cadence was reminiscent of someone recording an audiograph. If he listened closely enough, nearing the balcony door, he could hear the whirr of the machine, the click of the hole punch. His breathing hitched and his pulse thundered in his ear. 

His prey was so, deliciously, tantalizingly, close. Daud stayed his hand, listening closely. 

The machine stopped, pushing the card out and finishing the audiograph. There were footsteps, and Eustace walked out onto his balcony, his hands tight as he tucked the audiograph away in his vest, where he clearly thought it safe. His back was to Daud and the balcony door, lighting a cigar, the smoke curling up into the warm summer night air.

The wind roared in Daud's ears. It would be so easy to drop down, slit his throat, watch the blood spill over his gloves-- and suddenly he was aching for it, longing for the crunch of bones, the heat of crimson rivers running from a burst vein, the thrill of a new kill… 

The thoughts were intrusive and revolting, nearly causing him to heave again. He still managed to hold himself together, not wanting to drown in his mask, even ignoring the persistent itch on his face. The rising threat of bile burned at the back of his throat but he swallowed it down, his grip growing tight on the roof's edge. He held his position and  waited, patience baked into him from years of careful practice. Fink eventually finished enjoying his cigar, extinguishing the butt before turning back to his room. 

Daud waited for Fink to pass under him. He then slipped down, his boots silent against the stone. He crouched, righted himself, and pulled his blade from his side. His thumb found the notch in the metal. 

When Eustace Fink turned around to close the balcony doors, Daud was there, glassy eyes and muzzled mask glaring down at the second noble that had caused this nightmare of his to happen. 

Fink opened his mouth to scream. Daud rushed him, faster than he's ever moved. A powerful hand gripped Eustace by the throat, silencing him and guiding him over to a wall far from any escape route. He felt like nothing in Daud's grasp, like he was a weighted bag that Daud had the displeasure of carrying for a friend. The man was larger than him, heftier, and yet Daud could take him and lift him with a single arm, his right hand still holding the blade he'd drawn. It was heady and unbelievable, Daud didn't know where this power was coming from but it surged through him like a rising storm. He tapped further into that tempest, slamming Eustace into the wall next to his desk. 

The man whimpered. Daud snarled. Fink flinched and gasped and Daud almost laughed. He can't believe someone so weak-hearted tried to command a literal monster. 

Or perhaps, a nasty little voice in his head supplied, the monster was the weak one... Show him that you are different. Show him what your Power is. 

"You and your brother sure made a lot of enemies, didn't you, Eustace…" Daud growled out, his teeth feeling oddly heavy, morphing his words as he spoke them. They came out graveled and sharp and he suppressed the urge to lick his lips as he continued. "If I'm here, you have a bigger problem than the City Watch finding bloated bodies under a riverside bar." 

Fink said nothing. Instead, he started crying. Of all things, the man wept in front of his soon-to-be killer. Daud almost recoiled in disgust; this man wasn't even worth the coin. He slammed Fink against the wall again, eliciting a startled yelp from him.

"Do you even know why I'm here, Eustace Fink?" Daud spat the name out like it was undercooked blood ox. "Do you know who killed your brother? It was the assassin who you thought was dead in the sewers when you woke up. Your brother's monster ruined me but I survived and if you value your life, you're going to give me the answers I deserve." 

His voice grew in power despite the low whisper he spoke with. His words filled his own ears, reaching the room around them, and Fink gulped visibly. He looked Daud over, rasping against the hold that kept him in place. 

"Did it mark you?" He asked, finally. "The Outsider's monster?" 

"And if it did?" Daud threatened, mask dangerously close to Fink's face. "What does it matter?" He brought the blade up, his head tilting. "What do you know, Eustace Fink?" 

"Ah, I-I don't know as much as Howard did! He found the original beast, not me! But it… they always changed. The curse was always passed down. There isn't a cure for it. They all went mad and eventually--" Eustace gasped and his words died as Daud's grip dangerously tightened. He recalled what Brimsley had said to him, the words burning in his ears. 

"You're one now too, aren't you?"  

Daud's body lurched. His grip loosened, freeing Fink as that nausea filled him again, along with a different sensation, one where his head, his chest, his limbs wanted to burst, his skin scorching him all over. 

"No," Daud rasped out, his eyes far away. "I am not--" He stared at his gloves; his vision blurring dangerously. When Fink tried to crawl away, however, his sight caught the movement, head turning sharply. In a flurry, the blade was singing through Eustace's heels; the tendons sliced like butter and Fink collapsed, crying out. The blood pooled around his ankles, the smell of it sharp in Daud's nose. Eustace stayed prone on the floor, whimpering, his face rapidly losing color as shock set in. 

Pathetic.

Daud hunched over Fink's form, his breath ragged and heavy. Eustace stared at him, eyes wet and terrified, and Daud felt his seams unravel, his body falling apart. 

"It's happening? Here, now? Oh Void, oh Outsider's eyes…" Fink continued to babble, crying out for the fabled god of the Void, as if such an entity existed, could even save him from what was happening. Daud opened his mouth to refute Eustace; it came out as a splintered roar, words failing him.

"Where is your god, Eustace?" His voice boomed, but he did not know where the words came from, not when his mouth was making such unearthly noise. "You were the one who played god, killing assassins for your games, your bloody gambling coin. Did you think yourself honorable, setting such a trap? How many men died to serve you and your fucked up brother?"

Eustace paled and he looked so small, so tiny, so weak. To think this man and his brother succeeded as much as they had, enslaving unknowing participants for entertainment…

His head reeled in anger and rage. He pulled the man close, his hands curling into smoking, burning claws that dig deep into Eustace's clothes, ripping at skin.

"Stop praying to a god who won't listen! This is your reality! Now face your judgement!"

Daud ripped the whaler mask off and underneath was no longer the face of a man. A true muzzle burst from his face, black and filled with glistening, razored fangs. His wounds burned and steamed as his eyes bulged and he screamed, the pain of the last month consuming him entirely. Ribs cracked and bones shifted and he grew, his body doubling, tripling. His skin was tearing off and it felt so good, like he had been waiting his whole life, his whole existence, for this singular moment of unbridled ecstasy. 

He roared and it was like the land, the sea, like the Void itself, shook under the sound of his cry. He laughed, eyes watering, filled with relief and pain and it was all so much, too much. He screeched, the sounding reminiscent of a dying whale, before his teeth slammed together like a crashing wave. Fink was still in his vicinity; he could smell the fear, hear the pleading, but all it did was anger him further. He didn't need this sniveling worm of a human. 

A clawed hand grabbed Eustace and in the next second his body was in ribbons. Guts spilled and a head rolled and Daud felt his mind flee, the smell of iron and heat overwhelming his senses in a way he'd never known after a kill. Suddenly he was ravenous, he needed that blood on his tongue. He obliged his primal desire, ripping the man's arm off with ease, letting bone and fat and muscle fill his mouth with the heat of a fleeing life. 

There was a scream. Daud's ears caught it and he turned, lip curling. He had nothing to say to the woman standing in the door, hair tied back and clutching her dress. The sound of her distress continued, unwavering. Daud stepped towards her, snarling.

She ran. 

He was moving faster than he could ever have imagined, his legs possessing a strength that was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. His body moved on its own accord, spurred on by the thrill of the hunt, of the pursuit of prey and he was giddy, drunk off it. The house was a maze but his nose cut through the turns, following the fear and nausea, the horror of his unhinged rampage left in his wake. Walls and doors meant nothing; his body either forced its way through or smoked through openings, dissolving and coalescing in ways he didn't understand and spent no time dwelling on. He was consumed instead with the goal of reaching for and pouncing on his next victim, then the next. He caught sounds over the rush of his own blood; a tiny shrill voice here, a male voice there, the howl of hounds released upon him. All of them meant nothing; their teeth could not hurt him now. Their attacks were just pin pricks of lucidity within his fever dream, all dying or cowering before his unbridled wrath. Two dogs were bodily thrown, another bitten in half, still another tossed at a human handler, throwing both dog and man through a wall. He pursued, determined to not let anyone in the house escape. Not this time. Not after this hell month, not after everything--

A drop of water rippled through the chaos of his mind. The scent of the sea filled his nostrils, the sound of whales keened in his ears. Daud stilled, suddenly entranced, and turned his head.

A rune chittered and vibrated and sang on an ensconced shrine. The room was small, perhaps a hidden pantry; it had been revealed when Daud had thrown the body through the wall. Purple cloth fluttered from the disturbance of the crash and used candles scattered about the floor and table. 

Someone was sitting on that table, cross-legged: someone lithe, dark, and still holding the ageless beauty of youth.  Despite the slim, ethereal frame the person presented, Daud could sense the incredible shadow lurking just out of sight, the leviathan crying from the deep.

The figure smiled, his black, endless eyes glittering. He beckoned, and Daud obeyed. Like a leashed hound, he was irrevocably pulled under the waves, his huge body buckling before the sight of something greater, something far more ancient than he could ever fathom to be. He bowed his giant furred head and cold hands ran over his wounds, calming the persistent itch and smoothing away his month-long fever. Daud whined, giving himself over entirely as the figure held him close, arms embracing him like a long lost lover. The voice in his ears calmed his storm and soothed his pain and called him Home. 

"Oh, Daud, beautiful Daud," the man cooed and Daud was enraptured, a whale's cry leaving him like a warbled gasp. The grip tightened on him and suddenly his body was melting away, the fur turning to ash to reveal his human skin underneath. He breathed, his left hand itching pleasantly where the figure held it, the other hand running smooth circles across his shoulders and down his back. Daud looked up into that ancient face and when it smiled, there was no warmth, no stars in those endlessly black eyes. 

"I knew you would come back to me, Daud. After all..." the god's smile spread, breaking his face. 

"...It was just a matter of time." 

Chapter Text

Midnight, ???

The Month of Songs -- 1820

Daud drew breath and it burned cold in his lungs. He checked himself; somehow, his clothes remained intact, untouched by… whatever had just happened to him. He lifted his gaze and when he inhaled again, it felt like gaseous seawater at the back of his throat. 

Where there once stood the Fink Manor, the house was now splintered, cracked, and floating into a vast, sky blue expanse. Though he was still standing in the pantry, the shrine humming next to him, the other two walls and the roof were destroyed as if by a bomb. A whale breached next to the stone platform this all stood on; it's massive eye met his briefly before disappearing down again. Daud felt his heart lurch. 

His hands flexed. He whirled back to the figure still watching him so adoringly. 

"What kind of game is this?" Daud asked, his chest still fighting to find air, still unsure if he was breathing water or not. The atmosphere was thicker here than it ever was in the waking world; not even the Serkonan summer had settled so heavily in his chest. Daud met those black eyes and refused to flinch. "Who are you?"

The entity just frowned, and something about that disappointment hit him like a carriage. He immediately regretted saying anything at all, especially something so pitiable, and he bowed his head in apology. A cold hand lifted his chin, forcing him to look back up into those glassy eyes. 

"Oh, Daud, you know who I am. Even if you never were the worshipping type…" A slender thumb ran over those wounds on his cheek and he shivered. "No, you're the gambling kind instead, aren't you? Betting with your life instead of coin. You've always been like this. Perhaps that's why I took such a liking to you in the first place." 

"I don't understand," Daud said, his head feeling clouded under the touch of such an ancient being. "The Outsider is just a myth, a fantasy to keep children at home, to give nobles something to jerk off to, or to give the Abbey a scapegoat while they piss on the Strictures." He shrugged out of the Leviathan's hold, grabbing at the hand with his own. The Outsider watched the motion, his face full of glee at the contact. 

"Oh? It's not that complicated with me, Daud. You had a bet, remember? And I so wanted you to keep it." 

Daud frowned. He racked his brain, searching for the memory. As he did so, the Void around them warped, unbidden, and the Outsider smiled as a forgotten vision burst forth. Daud's eyes widened, looking up at two massive monsters fighting in a sewer. One was grey and malnourished, covered in boils and scars. And the other was a snarling mass of black fur, it's face glistening with dark blood that poured from fresh wounds that looked exactly like-- 

"What the fuck?" Daud's lip curled and he mirrored the black, wolflike creature of his memory. His tongue touched his teeth and found them sharp. The Outsider just grinned all the more. 

"I needed to save your life, or I would lose you before your story even began. So, I gave you the gift of your power a little earlier than others who have had the misfortune of being attacked by such a void-touched creature. Yes; you were cursed the moment those claws broke your jaw and split your throat, but I knew your tale wasn't so easily finished." The Outsider gave him a once-over, the gaze was so hungry it made Daud squirm. "You do not know your own importance and it is so splendid to behold."

There was a reverence there that Daud didn't trust, but it stirred something in his soul. "I'm just an assassin," he managed, taking a step away from the god of the Void. The Outsider just watched, but made no move to follow. 

"You will move the tides of the entire Isles, Daud."

"You sure about that," he sneered, his fists clenching. "I am cursed now, you said it yourself. Cursed. I am doomed to go mad, just like the beast before me." 

The Outsider held out his left hand. The smile he held was deadly. 

"Will you be worth my time, Daud?" 

Daud's lip twitched, wanting to refuse, but in the end, curiosity won. He relented.

"Bet," he growled, then gave his hand over to the Outsider to shake. As soon as he did, the back of his hand burned, seared as if branded with an iron. He hissed, not breaking his grip even as he turned his palm to see the back of it. There, glowing bright and smoking with arcane magic, a Mark appeared, one of an intricate arrow-and circle design. He stared at it, transfixed, as a new sort of power flowed through him. 

"My Mark," the Outsider said casually, running his hand over Daud's soothingly. "It will keep the beast of you at bay, give you the control you so desperately seek." He grinned, his eyes glittering maliciously. "But how long can you keep up that control? I wonder…" 

The god pulled Daud closer, dragging him in like the riptide. The Outsider smirked against his ear and Daud felt the shiver all the way down his spine. 

"Can you shape the world to your will, Daud?" He whispered, holding the statement between them like a secret. "Or will you be ruined by it?"

The Outsider pulled away, his smile far too knowing. 

"Until we see each other again." 

Then, as suddenly as he appeared, the Outsider was gone. His cold, suffocating presence fled from Daud and when he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the Void. Instead, he was in the very real Fink Manor, the weight of reality far heavier than the pressures of the deep. Daud swallowed, first retrieving the runes from the shrine before stepping back across the pantry threshold. 

The house was in ruins. The rampage he had caused nearly razed the building; a pipe from the kitchen was spitting water, the pantry wall was burst and the dog and handler were lying dead at his feet. Down the hall, he could see evidence of his huge body crashing through doorways with little remorse and forethought. Blood splattered the walls and limbs settled in places far and away from their original owners. 

It was the sight of a massacre, one of Daud's own making. He choked on the bile clawing up his throat. 

This wasn't his handiwork. It couldn't be. Assassins were meant to be clean, quick, quiet. A good assassin left no trace of themselves behind; a great assassin could even clean and dispose of the body before someone found the scene of the crime. The City Watch was founded to try and protect the streets, but they could do nothing against men and women like him. The best of them were, in all ways, untraceable. 

If anyone saw this house, they wouldn't see the work of a trained killer. They would see a contained storm, or perhaps a Tyvian fanged bear set loose on a dare. 

They would see the work of a monster.

Daud silently stepped through the wreckage, spotting a woman -- a maid, by the clothing -- with her throat ripped open, the lines jagged and unclean from where her trachea was bitten into. A wolfhound, ripped in two; the other half, he could not find, no matter how hard he searched for it. It left him light-headed, slightly nauseous, considering he vaguely remembered Eustace's arm in his mouth, the blood in his jaws -- 

He retched dryly. He fought the sick that threatened to come up, not really wishing to repeat what happened on the roof earlier. Certainly, he didn't want to know or see what would come up if he succeeded in vomiting. With a monumental effort he kept it down, gasping for breath and running a shaking hand over his face. 

The fingers of his left hand traced over the new scars on his cheek and the sensation sent an intense shiver down his face and neck, all through his arm. He jerked his hand back away from his face, hissing in discomfort. The Mark on his hand burned for a moment, reminding him of his newest annoyance. He flexed his hand; the Mark lit up, itching, begging to be used. 

He pulled curiously at the power beckoning to him. His fingers immediately morphed into long, black claws; he yelped, shaking his hand out in surprise. The claws disappeared-- but the power remained. He frowned, trying again. He focused on one spot near the stairs; the Void grabbed him at his request, pulling him forward in a rush and leaving a trail of ash in his wake. 

Daud's eyes went wide and his mouth hung open. He had traversed 10 meters in just a moment, the Void whispering in his ear as he did so. It was heady, thrilling; he grinned, feral, and tried the power again. 

He landed in a nearby living room where he had ripped a couch in half and knocked a woman in fine jewelry into a wall, breaking her neck. He was about to jump through space again when he heard a squeak, a yelp; he froze, looking to the sound. 

What he saw brought a vice around his heart. A child, a girl, trapped under some fallen wood and plaster from the ceiling above. She caught sight of Daud and when Daud caught sight of her, her eyes shone with tears, threatening to spill over. 

"Sir…" she said weakly, her voice bubbling up, full of pain and fear. He rushed over, pulling his glove back over his left hand. She squirmed, choking in sobs. "Is it gone? Is-is...where did it go? That beast…" 

Daud shushed her gently, trying not to let shock set into his features even as his limbs ran cold. Of course the child didn't recognize him as the monster she witnessed slaughtering her whole family. "Don't use too much energy now, I'll get you out of there." He gently moved some plaster and she squealed in pain; he shifted a joist to the side and clenched his jaw tight. 

A large nail had impaled her tiny calf, the wound covered in blood, the color of it darkening her slacks. He looked at her carefully; she was staring at her leg and when she went to grab it, he caught her hand in his. 

"Do not touch it," he told her quietly. "You'll make it worse. How long have you been injured?" She just gripped his hand tight and shook her head as her chest heaved with swallowed cries. Void, she couldn't be older than eight.

"I don't know… it just hurts," she wept, her hands bloodied, her face pale. "My mother, she-she…" the child gulped, fighting for air. 

She was spiraling. Daud put a hand on her head, trying to ground her. "Hey, I'm here, okay? You aren't going to die. Did--" his mouth went dry, and he tried again. "Did the monster touch you?" As he asked the question, he dug through a pouch on his hip, his eyes darting down to look for a familiar lime-green vial. 

"No, I got trapped and then the dogs came and then…" her face screwed up in agony, and Daud had a feeling not all of it was physical. 

Did it have to be a child? He hated this, hated thinking he had let a kid see something so needlessly brutal. "It's going to be alright. I'm going to get you out of here. I'm not going to leave you to die on this nail."  

Her eyes met his for the first time all night, searching for the truth. He didn't waver, opting instead to hold her little hand tighter. He swallowed, and when he saw the returning trust in her eyes, he pulled out a small dart and showed it to her. 

"This is a sleep dart," he told her, holding it out for her to see. "It will put you to sleep for an hour or so. It will sting a little, but it will help lessen the pain, and it will help me get you off the nail without it hurting. Do you trust me with this?" 

What other options did she have? He knew she had very few, and there was nothing she could do on her own. She would die of infection here. 

She nodded, but grabbed his hand before he could administer the dose. "Wait," she said. "What is your name first?" 

He blinked. "Daud."

She smiled. "Daud, like Dad." That settled very unpleasantly in his stomach, but he did not correct her. "I'm Emma, it's nice to meet you." 

He nodded. "Likewise. Now, are you ready?" 

She let go and nodded. He adjusted the dose in the dart and then stuck it in her arm. Her eyes drooped; in the next few seconds she was asleep, and completely unaware. 

Daud moved as quickly as he could. He had some bandages on him, as well as a few rags for quick wound wrapping, but nothing sustainable. He got up, using the Void to rush through the house and find the bathroom. He looted it swiftly; the first aid kit would have to do for now. He transversed back to where she lay, still stuck to the nail. He breathed, then got to work.

Daud had a very strict policy on children when it came to assassination jobs, one that put him at odds sometimes with his colleagues in the business. Other assassins would happily off a whole family to prevent leaks or future loose ends. In a way, it was self-preserving more than anything; a dead child could not speak of what they witnessed. Sometimes, the hit was on the child itself; easy to poison an unwanted heir, for example.

But Daud… he wasn't in this line of work to slaughter kids. He left kids alive; he took parents away from the home if he had to, so that it looked like an accident. He had even dropped a child off at an orphanage, an unfortunate leftover from a hit he and Rulfio once conducted. Rulfio had argued with him about it, but they both decided it was better than ending up dead, abused, or in the Golden Cat. 

Never kill the kids. Not if he could help it. Whenever he saw a child, he saw a young Daud, stolen from his home, made to kill and perform for coin until he finally roused the courage to off his own abuser. 

Then Daud had run off to become a killer of bastards just like the one who abducted him. 

He frowned as he tightened the tourniquet and eased Emma's leg off the nail. The wound spurted with blood and Daud quickly staunched the flow as much as he could, before quickly wrapping the leg with bandages soaked in disinfectant. Through it all, the girl slept, and Daud sighed. This would not be enough, he knew; he worked his jaw, the scent of the blood and rubbing alcohol strong in his nose. He packed back up, lifting the girl carefully before shifting her so she was cradled in his right arm. His left fist clenched and he ignored the claws itching their way free as he jumped through the Void once again. He traveled back up the stairs, back to Eustace's room; the whole time, Emma slept. He kept a bead on her heart, the beat of it steady in his ears. 

The bedroom was even worse than the rest of the house. Eustace Fink's body was wretched apart, nearly unidentifiable. Daud neared the pile of human viscera, trying not to think of how he had lost control, bursting forth and slaughtering the man. 

Never again, he thought to himself, but even as he held the girl tight, he did not know the long-term validity of those words. 

He spotted his whaler blade and mask; he grabbed both, carefully sheathing the sword, then, after a moment of hesitation, he clipped the mask to his belt. He then pulled the audiograph from Fink's remains and carefully swept the room for anything else of value. 

A safe with gold ingots and 500 coin. A few choice books, stashed away. Notes from his brother-- Daud paused at these, frowning down at the ledgers.

Eustace,

Jerome changed last week; he will be ready for challengers soon, so get those hound fighters excited for our next event! The first week of the month of Clans will be best. I will test this brute against the others; as a former assassin, I cannot believe how strong his killer instinct is! Brimsley was right; the stronger the person turned, the more likely they are to survive to put on a show! I don't expect the others to fare so well, but now we know that we at least have a sure-fire way to lure Dunwall assassins into a trap.

Be careful if you come down to the ampitheatre to see this dog, however. I can hear it in my mind… it taunts me, hates me, tries to overpower me. I always just shock it back into submission; it's so weak it can't carry out it's bigger threats. But Eustace… please. Your mind is not as strong as mine. Do not be swayed. These monsters of the Outsider are no longer human, like you or I, no matter what it says to you. 

Here is the list of the next possible brutes I have selected, and also the date for the next Hound Pits fight. Don't forget the fliers, we need the noble's coin to keep this up!

The snarl that ripped through Daud was so strong and loud it shocked even him. The girl stirred but did not wake; he looked to the body of Eustace Fink and no longer regretted his fate. 

They truly had found some giant monster, one like him perhaps, that had attacked someone and then that person had turned. And then the next person, and then the next until they trapped an assassin -- Spirits. He knew Jerome, had seen him in passing; he was from Potterstead, was raised into the profession, was cleaner than all of them. Surgical, even. 

And he had been tortured into blindness, forced to fight dogs, and then Daud himself had…

Daud bit down on his cheek until he tasted blood. He scoured the room once more, then pulled out a bolt from his satchel on his belt. Carefully, he set the girl down in a chair, then readied his wristbow. Three incendiary bolts flew through the room, igniting expensive fabrics, flammable wallpaper, the remaining useless documents on the table. He watched the fire spread, pulling a cigarette out and lighting it. He pulled the drag, then threw it into the growing flames.

Then, he secured his belt, carefully lifted Emma back into his arms, and left the burning wreckage of the home he single-handedly destroyed. 

------

It was another late night, one that Misha knew he would not be walking home from. It was well past midnight and even with the Watch prowling about, the Hatter's were likely to jump anyone unsuspecting, stealing money for months rent, or worse. So instead, he just sighed and closed the downstairs shutters, pulling the curtains in and locking the door. The one lamp still illuminated the front desk where his assistant had been sorting paperwork earlier; end of month books, on top of end of year numbers. His numbers had seen better days. Between the gangs clogging up the streets and his brothers getting caught up in hound fight gambling, he had lost more than he had recuperated. 

He missed his brothers. He did not miss them asking him for more coin every week of every month, effectively bleeding him dry. 

He had tried a few times to dissuade them, but all in vain. They were his brothers, two versus his one. They knew how to guilt him, especially with the death of their mother hanging over the practice like a cloud. So he had given them what they asked for, knowingly enabling them like a bar enables a drunkard, and hoped everything would be okay in the end. 

It wasn't okay. His brothers were presumed dead and he had no money for a dying practice. All he could do was try to set the remaining things right. Hiring the assassin gave him a grim sort of satisfaction, some twisted sense of justice. After the deed was done, he'd file with the Watch, see if their bodies couldn't be recovered. The hardest part was between step one and step two; waiting for the completed assassination.

As he headed up the stairs to retire to his office for the night, he stopped at the calendar on the way up. He looked at the final week of Clans-- then put an X over the 28th day, the last day of the month. Four other angry Xs precede the 28th, all counting down from when he and Daud had come to their agreement. He frowned, flipping the calendar to Songs. 

Daud had said that his job took time, but gave no frame of reference to ease Misha's worries. He sulked for a bit at the calendar on the wall before finally moving on, entering the office and lighting the desk lamp easily. He then -- as he had done so every night for the past four nights -- went over to the terrace and moved to unlock it, just in case Daud returned with news and wished to enter the way he had initially done. 

He didn't expect the man to suddenly appear before him in a swirl of ash and smoke. He also didn't expect the small, pale body Daud was carrying in his arms, either. 

And he certainly didn't expect Daud's face to be visible, his eyes burning, long scars cutting valleys into his otherwise young face. 

Misha gaped. He fumbled with the latch, pushing the door open to give Daud more access. The assassin pulled in a ragged, tired breath. 

"Daud--" Misha started, following the other man as he swiftly entered the office. "What happened? Is Fink--"

"Dead," Daud said, the roughness of his voice contrasting how gingerly he handled the body in his arms. "I need your expertise. Do you have a table?" 

Misha glanced towards the small figure and nodded, pushing open the far door; it led to a small operating room, separate from the others and one that he used for special cases. He turned on the light over the table as Daud placed a small child -- Void, a child -- down onto it. She was asleep but her breath was shallow, sweat beading on her brow. Her leg was bandaged, but it was already bleeding through, the blood dark and angry. 

Misha immediately let himself still, evaluating this new, sudden patient. His emotions detached, and his brow furrowed in focus. He quickly grabbed gloves and sharply demanded, "Tell me what happened."

Daud hesitated, then, "Nail. She impaled her leg on a nail. Got trapped in the home." 

"And you just took her?" 

"Everyone else was dead." He said it softly, as if full of remorse. Misha knew the time for questions was now past. Instead, he got to work. He unraveled the leg and pulled over a bowl, cleaning solution, and a syringe. 

"I used a sleep dart on her," Daud explained. "I don't know how much longer the sedative will last."

Assassin sleep darts, he knew, were usually sodium pentothal, and at the dose Daud probably used, the girl would still be down for a while. Still, a local anaesthetic wouldn't be a bad idea. 

"Here, be useful. My usual assistant isn't here so I will need your help cleaning this." Daud complied, then began the task of fetching anything that Misha asked of him. Sutures, clamps, saline solution, scalpel, magnifier, light. The girl whined in her sleep, and Daud, surprisingly, was there for her, holding her hand in a heavy glove. It wasn't long before her leg was properly cleaned and closed, the sutures staying as he carefully bandaged the leg back up. 

"If all goes well and the wound stays clean, her leg will survive," Misha sighed, pushing tiredly away from the girl and removing bloodied gloves. Daud just nodded, watching the girl carefully as she slept. A whisper tickled at the back of Misha's head and he grimaced, scratching at his hair. The movement made Daud's head jerk to look at him, inhuman and unnatural. 

It was now that Misha was actually able to get a good look at the face of his hired hitman. He had short black hair, styled back and out of the way, though now it was tousled and out of place. His eyes were a striking blue, but not in the way that left him feeling flustered. Instead, they were like ice, splintering into his chest and making him feel as if a wild predator was evaluating his continued existence. The scars on his face tugged as he frowned; the longest line cut from his right forehead all the way down over his throat,a and the second longest also sliced through his cheek alongside the first. The last two sat partially hidden under his chin, over his throat, and Daud's frown deepened as he caught the doctor staring.

Misha's face flushed. He was never one to hide his feelings well, and definitely not as easily as a hardened assassin. 

"Daud..." he started, trying to cover the intrusion. The assassin suddenly stood up, his hand flat on the table, challenging and threatening Misha to continue speaking.

"Go on, say it," Daud said, dangerously soft. "Others already have. They didn't have to be a doctor or an assassin to know I shouldn't have survived -- this." He waves at his neck, as if disgusted by the scars. 

Upsetting an assassin seemed to be a poor life decision. Misha chose his next words carefully. 

"You need to clean up, and you seem invested in the child. Would you like to stay the night, to at least be there when she wakes up?" 

Daud's face immediately closed off. Again, something itched at the back of Misha's head, and he tried to rub it away. A whisper, almost… indecision? Misha had not expected an emotion to come forth. When he questioned it mentally, it disappeared, so still he shrugged it off as imagaination. He watched Daud as he pulled his face out of the lamplight and back into shadow, his eyes still bright in the gloom. His fist clenched. 

"No, no, I'd rather not. I've already done enough to ruin her life." He looked around the office and then, finding what he was looking for, went to fetch it. 

Misha almost missed it; Daud's left hand twitched and then suddenly, in a rush of ash, he was across the room, and then back. Misha gaped as Daud scrawled words over the paper he had fetched, then handed the paper to Misha. 

"Outsider's eyes," he breathed out, but the look on Daud's face silenced him. 

"This address; when she's well, take her there. Tell them Daud sends his regards, and hopes Jason is well. Also--" 

He pulled a purse from his satchel, setting it down. "That's for the girl." Then he pulled out a whole gold ingot and handed it to Misha. "And this is for you."

Misha gaped. He'd never seen so much gold -- he shook his head, holding his hands up. "What--! I can't accept this-- Don't tell me that you are paying me for--" 

"Don't worry, I have another," Daud assured. "I made sure I'd be paid well for this too. Besides, I told you, 'half now--'" he pushed the ingot to Misha more insistently. "'half later.' Here's your half, later." 

Misha gulped. He had a feeling that Daud was not going to take no for an answer. He acquiesced, gently taking the gold, and the assassin relaxed. He stood back, giving Misha some space. 

"Don't spend it all in one place," he suggested, a dry attempt at humor. Misha managed a tired smile in return. 

"Am I allowed to offer my appreciation, now?" 

Daud said nothing. He looked away. 

"May we be blessed to never meet again, Misha Romanov." 

Misha, personally, did not see that as a blessing-- but perhaps, given Daud's line of work, it was for the best. He nodded, not wishing to argue with a man who could so easily murder him. 

"Regardless… Thank you, Daud." 

Those prickled whispers returned, just as Daud met his eyes. There was something mildly astonished in his gaze, and Misha tried not to push away the foreign white noise that invaded his mind. Instead, somewhere in there, he thought -- imagined, he reminded himself -- that he caught the faintest expression of " You're welcome."

As quickly as it built up, the emotion was gone-- and so was Daud. Misha blinked, putting a hand to his ringing ear. He looked to the open terrace and was suddenly filled with the urge to follow, to rush out to the balcony so he did, throwing the doors apart in his wake. He breathed the night air and there he was, on the opposite rooftop, eyes and scars burning, even in the dark. Daud looked back at Misha; their eyes met. 

Daud's left hand raised, smoking and black. His fist clenched. 

And in a flurry of ash and wind, he was gone.

Chapter Text

Dunwall

Month of Songs, 1820

He was running. He was running, throwing his surging body forward, every step pounding into the ground with the force of a full stampede. The scent of blood, of fear, was heavy in his nose; it drove his senses to a pinpoint, beckoning him onward. Weariness fled from him as his skin was shed, scars blazing and teeth shining with a manic light. He breathed and his body breathed with him, contracting and expanding, growing with every filled lung. He gulped air like a whale before the plunge; muscles rippled, launching, claws ready to rend, to tear, to savor. 

He was a killer; he was born for this. His prey was fully unaware; fur flew and bone crushed and his jaws longed for the warmth of blood, the tender tear of flesh rending between his teeth. A limb was shorn from its body easily and his long nose plunged into the cavity left behind, rooting for soft, vulnerable organs. He closed his eyes and worshiped the entrails he found within. He was drunk on it, drowning in the life-giving red water, offering reverence to both god and devoured flesh. Somewhere far away, a whale keened; he bellowed his own song, body rippling with the sound as it morphed into a roar, then a scream. His voice dripped with Void but still the whales cried and burned; he could feel their dying songs reverberating in his ears, his whole body resonating with the call.

------

Daud lurched forward, gasping for air, returning to the surface of his dreams. His body was slick with sweat and smoke and his nose burned with the smell of burning oil. Whalesong mixed in his ears with another unearthly sound, a keening note that he realized, belatedly, was a sundering howl ripped from his own throat. He fell from the bed, all too aware of his teeth clashing, his claws ripping, his body shaking from an exertion he didn't know it was experiencing until now. 

He tried to still his panicking mind but his body spasmed of its own accord, as if trying desperately to break free of it's human-shaped prison. He fought for lucidity against the instinctive desire to shift into something else. He bit down on his tongue, rolling it through too-long teeth, and clenched his left hand so painfully it bled. He tasted iron on his lips and gasped out, trying not to fall apart at the literal seams. 

Human, human, you're still human , he reminded himself, trying desperately to convince whatever shift was happening to reverse itself. A dark part of his mind snarled back, telling him he was only lying to himself, that humanity was now beyond him--but he snuffed it out, shaking his head as the world swam with void and smoke. He clenched his fist even tighter; he snarled and his scars smoldered like they would sear his face right off, but he finally got his body to settle. Claws melted away, fur and ears and snout left on a non-existent breeze. His chest exhaled; with it, the beast succumbed, returning to rest in the coil of his ribcage. His limbs shook, his body was slick with sweat. He wanted to be sick. 

When he pounded his fist into the flooring, the wood creaked, splinters biting into his skin. 

A week. He'd had this Mark for a bloody week and still, everyday was a fight. A fight against a body that didn't want to be confined to skin, with claws that itched to grow, with teeth that begged to be bared. The Mark on his hand and the whispers of the Void that were supposed to help him maintain this mess seemed only to encourage the beast of him. His dreams were vivid bloodbaths coaxing the monster to burst from his skin. The Outsider had wondered how long Daud could control the beast; Daud wondered if he even had control to begin with. 

His hand seized and he shook it, flexed it, then concentrated. His breathing returned to normal, his shivering stopped. He willed those claws to grow long and deadly before whispering them away again. He watched as the inky black fur broke apart and turned to ash, as if the fur wasn't made of hair, but actual voidstone, muttering secrets even as it dissipated away. Daud frowned, sat back on his legs, and closed his eyes. 

This time, he felt for the Void. He searched for it with purpose, his hand the part of him that was allowed to plunge across the barrier. The chill was bone deep, the pain of it followed by a tingling pressure that begged him to stop-- but he found it. The tendril of magic he was searching for. He tugged on it like a spider testing its web, following the vibrations towards its intended goal. 

Daud kept his eyes closed until he felt the cold burn up his arm, filling him with magic. When he opened his eyes, the world's colors were muted but her secrets lay bare; people far below him either still slept or paced paths around their beds. Scent trails wafted in front of him, the smells of whales, of oil, of burnt skin traveling through his apartment. When he blinked again his normal color vision returned, the murmur in his ear fled from him, and his mark faded from a bright screaming white back down to a faded black. 

He drew breath and heavy air filled his lungs; a cold hand materialized on his scarred cheek and he stilled, blinking, until a smirking figure appeared before him fully. He swallowed, still very aware of his position on the floor, and lifted his gaze to meet endless black. 

"My, learning something new today?" the Outsider asked calmly, stroking a thumb across Daud's cheek. The sensation of the touch across his scars sent a shivering jolt all the way down to his feet and he gasped at the sensation. He tried to regain composure, tried to scowl at the god. 

"It's not like I've been given many instructions," Daud complained. "So I've had to learn to take what I can get when I find it." 

"You have been quite busy seeking out my shrines," the Outsider noted. "But they are easier to listen for than to see. This new power will help you hear their songs. Once your ears hear it, you will know. And you will be drawn to them." 

Thin fingers moved from his face to his hair, carding through the loose black strands and Daud's eyes slid closed, his body entranced under the touch. It was soothing and suffocating; he let himself be set adrift, the current pulling him where it wished. The Outsider smiled. 

"A mother from Pandyssia, and the bastard father she murdered on her way to Serkonos. She was called a witch, people thought she worshipped me. But she didn't; you knew it was all slander. You didn't even believe I really existed." He drew his hand away and Daud whined, unbidden. Free of the trance, he stood up; the Outsider floated above the flooring, his shadow immeasurable. 

"Why believe in a god that didn't pay attention to us, or the suffering of others? It was pointless."

"And yet, here I am. In truth, I'm glad you weren't devout. Would have made it so much less interesting to approach you." The Outsider turned away, though Daud felt as if his hungry dead eyes were still watching his every move. 

"Tell me, Daud, did you ever hear the fables of whale-wolves in your youth?" 

Daud blinked. "My mother mentioned them under a different name. Wolfbanner, those cursed as wolves. It was fanciful, like anything from Pandyssia. I didn't pay it much mind as I aged, when I had other things to worry about."

"Like murdering your abusive captors," the Outsider supplied. He turned back to Daud, studying him. "Not your first kill, and not your last." He disappeared, reappearing at Daud's side, facing the opposite direction. A hand hovered over Daud's arm, the sensation of promised contact prickling against his skin. 

"You are by far the most bloodthirsty of my Marked, the first in a long time." 

There was a sadness there, but also an interest, a hunger. Daud leaned away a little, trying to meet the Outsider's eye. 

"How many have you Marked?"

"There are a few in every age. You are one of six, all scattered in the Isles. The last time I marked someone, you were still a babe in Serkonos. The last time one of my Marked died, it was here, under this very city, just over a year ago." His face fell serious, a terrible gaze that chilled Daud to the bone. 

"The one Fink found," Daud surmised, and the Outsider's form flickered dangerously. He chose to dissipate, forming again to sit on Daud's bed, a foot resting over the opposite knee. 

"My whale-wolves are not the playthings of men. They are individuals who make their own lives, their own paths, their own choices. According to legend, the original were whales that left the water to walk on land; they possessed humans, and their form changed to suit their bodies and their environment. It was not so easy on the humans; they eventually lost their minds to the whale's overwhelming presence, ravaging their villages and infecting others, and were ultimately killed." The Outsider looked away, his gaze far off. 

"But that was thousands of years ago, when whales were more powerful. My Mark gives humans a fighting chance, but it also changes them forever. You are now more than you ever were before, Daud." 

"I was quite fine being human, you know," Daud snarled. "I didn't want to become some furred whale that walks on land." The Outsider gave him a sad look. 

"Unfortunately, few get to choose this path. Those who have the option of choice are rarer and more powerful than you could ever imagine. You could have been one but…" the Outsider flicked over to him again, his hands and eyes fixated on the scars marring his face. Daud inhaled sharply, not expecting the touch. 

"But you were attacked before that choice could be offered to you. I'm sorry. So please, do not take what I've given you to waste." 

The god's voice was barely a whisper, but so loud within his ears, like rushing water. He turned toward the Outsider, unbidden. That slender face smiled. 

"What would you see me do, then?" He asked, eyes dark and entranced again. 

"Return to where you started," the Outsider offered. "And keep your friends close. You will need them, soon."

And then, just like that, Daud was alone again. He shivered, his body alight in a very different sense, limbs tingling with phantom pain. He breathed, trying to ease his mind, but it was no use. He settled instead for a cold shower but all it did was remind him of those icy hands, the rush of water in the Void, and the whales that kept crying from their death row in the slaughterhouses. 

------

Rulfio was early to his meeting with Daud by approximately ten minutes and 45 seconds. 

Apparently, so was Daud. 

This wasn't completely unlike the other assassin, if Rulfio was being honest. What was unlike Daud, however, was his vulnerable position-- sitting against the chimney, his arms resting on his knees, his mouth nervously rolling a new cig. Daud didn't even look at Rulfio as he cleared the roof, swinging his legs over the edge before straightening up. 

There was no mask, this time. A welcome return to normalcy -- until, of course, Daud turned his head towards Rulfio. Without thinking, Rulfio's eyes shot over to Daud's scars and he stilled. His beard pulled into a frown and he crossed his arms; Daud sighed. The younger assassin didn't stand up, just kept sitting there, too open and languid.

"Do I even want to know the trouble you've been into since the last time I saw you?" The words were rough but held no venom; Daud responded by looking down and away, the shadow of a smile twitching on his lips as he pulled at his cigarette. The smoke billowed up as he breathed out. 

"Maybe not. If I had the option of not knowing, I would take it, to be honest." 

There was something ruined there in those words that gave Rulfio a pause. He unfolded his arms, instead opting to set his hands into pockets. 

"Well, did you get it done, then? It's been near two weeks."

Daud nodded. He then dug into the bandolier at his chest and pulled out a small pouch. He tossed it to Rulfio, who caught it easily. He noted the red velvet of the purse's fabric, opened it to gold coins, and laughed. 

"Steal everything but the bathtub?" 

"I burned the house. The whole family is dead. Except, well…" 

Rulfio tossed the bag up, catching it easily as it fell. "Well?" 

Daud sighed. He shot Rulfio a look. "There was a kid." 

Of course there was. "And where's the kid now?"

"In the hands of a physician. She was hurt, but she'll live." 

"Have you been stalking her?"

Daud's expression went deadly sharp. Rulfio blinked; a dark emotion hung in those edges that he had never seen on Daud's face before. But then it passed and Daud just grimaced, puffing on the cigarette in his mouth. 

"I've been trying not to. I don't need to interfere with a kid who's life I ruined." 

"And yet you pulled her from a burning building after killing her parents."

"I wasn't gonna let her die, Rulf." 

Fair enough. He tossed the coin purse again, finding the clinking pleasant in his ear. "Did that physician fix your face up too?" 

"No, that was…" his hand clenched, as if his wrist hurt. "It healed on its own." 

Rulfio knew a lie when he heard one. He laughed, waving at a bug hovering too near his ear. "Daud you're a better liar than that. If you have a secret, you can just keep it, you know." Interestingly, Daud's jaw worked; the fly in his ear grew more insistent. Rulfio wasn't the twitchy type --having a steady hand and low jumpiness made him great at his job-- but when he swatted and nothing flew from his hand, he turned his head, looking around. The air was empty, but the sensation tickling at his nerves remained. He scowled, and then caught Daud watching him curiously. 

"What is it?" He asked.

"Dunno," Rulfio confessed. "Thought it was a fly, or a mosquito. But there's nothing there." 

Immediately the twinge on his nerves receded, but Daud remained far too impassive. Rulfio squinted at him, folding his arms in again. 

It took a few ticks, but Daud finally twitched, his fingers moving back to his cigarette. 

"What did you do?" Rulfio asked, like he was talking to a petulant child. Daud exhaled, the sound roughened with smoke. 

"I need your help," he said, skirting the question. "It's not a contract, it's a… personal favor." His head tilted, his eyes softened. "I don't really have anyone else I can ask to come with me on this one." 

Rulfio considered. If you asked him, he wasn't the superstitious type, but something wasn't right. Daud was acting strange. Void, how long did Rulfio think him dead? Long enough to come to terms with the fact that his partner was well and truly gone. Then he just reappeared, with that haunting face and those seeping, infected wounds, and things changed. To be honest, Rulfio isn't even sure if Daud was still real, or some phantom sent to haunt him.

"Sure, I'll help you out, Daud. I've owed you for a while, anyway." He settled down on the roof next to the scarred man, nudging his boot amicably. "What do you need to see to?" 

Daud sighed, weary. He ran a hand over his hair. 

"It's the Hound Pits. I have to go back there, look around. Something doesn't add up, like I missed something the first time around. I don't want to get my information crossed, but some of the papers I found in Fink's place allude to... unpleasant practices. " Daud pulled the papers he recovered and easily handed them to Rulfio. He took the proffered articles, smoothing his beard as he read. That insistence itched at the back of his skull, ringing like tinnitus. 

Eyebrows up, Rulfio simply said aloud "do you mind?" while his eyes skimmed over the words, and was mildly surprised when the sensation obliged, backing off. The ache it left behind was dull, and Ruflio gave Daud a very pointed look. 

Daud, to his credit, tried to remain neutral. Rulfio sniffed. Daud blinked innocently. 

"Are you using some kind of magic on me, Daud?"

"Don't start with me, Rulf."

"Look I know you said your mom was from Pandyssia but--" 

"Just read the damn articles," Daud growled out, "and maybe then I'll tell you." 

Rulfio went back to the papers, smirking, but the smile fled as something dark settled into his chest. He read it, then read it again. He swallowed heavily and when he handed the papers back, he found his steady hand shaking. 

"Jerome," he managed, "it says he changed? And that they were looking for assassins to…" he cast a nervous glance at Daud, who was watching him very carefully. Rulfio's gaze flicked to those gastly scars, the lines dragging over his face and across his jugular, and he could feel the sweat beading on his own forehead. 

"What the fuck happened under the Hound Pits, Daud?" 

Daud didn't blink, his expression dark. 

"It's easier to show than tell on this one, Rulf." 

------

The trip to the Hound Pits Pub took longer than Daud wanted it to. After a week, he was used to these powers taking him farther and faster than his own legs could, to the point where walking was an overt annoyance. However, he couldn't trust to show his powers to Rulfio, not yet, not until his fellow assassin fully understood why. So, by simple flesh and steel they both traversed the rooftops, knowing the routes through Dunwall better than anyone. Blessedly, Rulfio asked no questions on the way, letting Daud take the lead and direct Rulfio where they needed to go. 

As they neared the establishment they settled down, carefully perching on a nearby apartment roof and simply observing. It was late afternoon, which meant the pub was getting ready for dinner and a long night of pleasantries. Someone in an upstairs apartment aired out some dirty laundry, getting spooked when she caught them lounging out of the corner of her eye. Daud grimaced, motioning to Rulfio; they hopped down after that, mingling with the streetside crowd. 

"Go on inside," Daud suggested, as they eyeballed the front door of the Pub. "See if you can't distract the staff for a while. I'm going to scout around for where we need to go."

"And how will I know you're ready for me?" 

Daud worried his cheek and resisted the urge to push his thoughts towards Rulfio. It was an addictive side effect, one he didn't totally understand or have control over, but he knew Rulfio's mind now, had a bead on it, and it would be so easy to…

"I'll come in and grab a drink myself," he supplied, pushing down the ache to reconnect to Rulfio's mind. "I'll grab a whiskey if I'm ready to go, a wine if not. How does that sound?" 

Rulfio nodded, good with the plan, and Daud relaxed. He nodded, then eased back against the wall, pulling out a cigarette to light. He lounged casually, wearing a loose shirt over his bandolier to conceal the majority of his weapons and equipment. He waited until Rulfio disappeared, nursing his cigarette between his lips. 

Then, he pulled the spent butt from his mouth, flicked it to the floor, and disappeared. 

He transversed through the Void, his body leaping to a new location, again and again, effortlessly. He had been practicing with the power, honing the feel of it over the last week, his confidence growing with each successful jump. He allowed the power to flow through him now, breathing in the ash it left behind, feeling his chest swell with unspoken exhalation. He circled the Pub, gathered a loose key from an upper room, and disappeared briefly into the sewers connected to the establishment. 

There, he let himself take a breath. His hand itched with long claws, his black gloves melting into oily fur. Daud looked around and sniffed; the sewers still stank, but not of death. Perhaps the rats or the hagfish got to last month's massacre, tearing apart any remains. He carefully traversed the tunnels, found the door he had used when he was first here, and unlocked it with the stolen key. 

Then, as silently as a spectre, he slipped into the main body of the Hound Pits Pub.

The place was bustling, the smell and sounds of the brewery and its customers hitting him full force. He staggered for a moment, nose curling, before making his way to the broad chested Tyvian. He knocked on the counter and Rulfio glanced at him, but said nothing else. 

"Can I get a whiskey?" Daud asked gruffly. "Dunwall's finest." The barkeep nodded, sauntering off to get the drink. Next to him, Rulfio shifted. 

"There is a door to the sewers in the--" he whispered, but just then, the rabble rose up, drowning his words. He glanced at Rulfio, who shook his head. Of course, he hadn't heard him. 

Daud huffed. And, without thinking, he shut his mouth tight and reached his mind out to Rulfio's. 

"Adjacent brewery has a door to the sewers in the back. It's unlocked. No guards. I'll meet you there."  

Daud could feel Rulfio's mind flickering through confusion, realization, shock, and-- the emotions flashed by so fast Daud's head felt heavy but he drummed on the counter and cleared his throat. As the barkeep brought his drink and he dropped his pay, he chanced a glance at Rulfio.

His partner's face was a wall. He was looking at Daud, his eyes unblinking, and Daud could sense the disbelief. He frowned; he needed to get Rulfio moving, damnit. 

"Is there a problem, sir?" Daud growled, lifting a dangerous lip. Across the weak connection he felt confusion, then understanding. Rulfio cleared his throat, then shook his head. 

"No sir, just thought I recognized you from somewhere." 

"With these scars? I doubt it. Now back off." 

Rulfio nodded and behind them, someone laughed. Daud turned away and nursed the whiskey; when he looked back, Rulfio was gone. 

He dropped a tip, downed the rest of his glass, then exited the way he entered. 

When Daud next met up with his fellow assassin in the sewers, Rulfio was livid. He grabbed Daud by his too-loose shirt, shaking him roughly, and snarled in Daud's face. 

"What black magic was that? Where is the bone charm? Who gave it to you? Damn it all, Daud!" 

Daud let himself be handled before carefully prying Rulfio's fingers off his shirt. He then pulled the shirt off, storing it near the door, and then checked his equipment and adjusted his hood.

"It's not a bone charm, Rulfio," Daud said, hating how strained his voice sounded. It was easier to count his bolts and darts than look at the dark, angry eyes of his partner in crime. "It's just how I am now, Rulf."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" There was the sound of a blade unsheathing, and Daud started, not expecting the weapon now pointed on him. Not Rulfio. His stomach dropped with the realization that somewhere along the way, he'd made a deadly mistake. He whirled towards his partner, putting his hands up. 

"Rulfio, wait--" 

The tip of Rulfio's dao blade pressed into his stomach, silencing him. Daud's mouth snapped shut and he shook his head, unmoving. 

"What were you doing in my head then? Are you like Jerome? In the note, how it said he could invade thoughts… is that what you're like now?  Are you even Daud anymore?" 

Daud licked his lips. He chose his words carefully; he really didn't think Rulfio wanted to see what would happen if he tried to spill his guts here and now. Daud didn't really want to see what would happen, either. 

"Rulfio, I swear to you, I have not been body snatched, I'm not some weird animated corpse. I just need you to trust me--" 

"Trust you, when you were coming in my head and talking to me? I didn't give you permission for that, Daud!" 

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help it," he whispered lowly, his voice echoing against the water and the walls. Rulfio had no response to that, but the blade didn't move. Carefully Daud moved to take off his left glove. "I just want to show you, so that you don't make a terrible mistake, right here, right now." 

"And why's that? You some witch now?" The sword pushed into his stomach.

"No, Rulfio-- fuck! I'm a Wolfbanner, I'm a cursed fucking whale-wolf!" 

The silence at the declaration hung heavy between them. Rulfio then laughed, singular, in disbelief. 

"Yeah, right. Those are just old wive's tales, Daud. There's…" but he trailed off, the look on Daud's face stony. Rulfio's eyes flicked to the scars. His hand shook. 

"Let me show you, Rulfio." He tugged at his glove. Rulfio shook his head, but didn't take his eyes off the motion. "Just please, don't gut me, that's all I ask." 

The glove slid off. The Outsider's Mark gleamed. In a swarm of ash, black claws grew.

The sword clattered loudly to the floor. 

Daud's jaw clenched tight, working as Rulfio stared, fascinated at the action. Worry crept in, and Daud took a step back for distance. 

"I didn't want this, Rulf, but I'm not lying, and by some god-given power, I haven't gone completely insane. I didn't think--I'm not here to-- I thought I could trust you with this because I hate lying to you, Rulf." 

"And the mind tricks? What is that?" 

"I…" Daud clammed up, and had the audacity to feel ashamed. "I don't know. I just realized that I could reach out to someone else's head, read their emotions, talk to them. I'm still learning this shit and I'm sorry, Rulfio. You couldn't hear me and I just acted without--"

The thwip was near silent. Daud didn't catch it soon enough; the punch in his leg caused him to buckle and grunt. He looked down; the bolt stuck from his thigh at an odd angle, but the blood poured from it all the same. He groaned again as the pain burned down his leg and up his spine. 

"Rulfio, what the fuck--" 

But it wasn't Rulfio. Daud's second stood, watching agape as a second bolt hit his right arm, in the bicep. Daud growled in annoyance, the sound guttural in his ears. He could feel his teeth growing heavy and he gnashed them together as he pulled the first bolt out of his leg with his free hand. 

"Rulfio," Daud rasped, feeling his mark burning and begging to be used. He dodged; another bolt whizzed past his head. "I swear, if you're in on this--" He didn't mean to sound so rough and angry but someone was shooting at him and he'd been too distracted to notice. But Rulfio just shook his head, his face pale. He reached for his sword but another bolt nearly struck his hand and he pulled back, cursing. 

It was enough to make Daud's blood boil over. His fist clenched; with a snarl he was rushing forward, ignoring the pain in his limbs. There was an exclamation, but he was already too far to make out the words. Ugly claws sprouted as the world greyed; a body to his left lit up and he sneered, teeth sharp. The individual was slim, hooded; they realized how close Daud suddenly was and they stumbled back, surprised. Or perhaps, terrified. 

It didn't matter. Daud's fist clenched and he pounced; another bolt whizzed past him, the shot going wide as Daud collided with his assailant. He pulled his blade out immediately, pulling it to the throat of--

Daud cursed and the person under him shuddered from where his hand lay clasped around her throat. Because now he knew it was a she; the long brown hair tied back in her hood and those sharp blue eyes were sign enough. He sighed out a growl, keeping his blade on her neck. 

"Jordan. You better have a good explanation for this."  He heard a yelp from Rulfio in the distance, the call of his name. Jordan sneered and Daud was suddenly very aware of the steady drip of blood from the bolt still in his arm. 

"Daud, what the shit was all that-- Jordan?!" Rulfio finally moved over to them, wet from the sewers, and he looked at her, equally baffled. He looked at Daud, then Jordan, and his face went severe. "Oh, you didn't… Seriously , Jordan?" He sounded like he was chiding a child which, to be honest, wouldn't be far off the mark. Jordan was even younger than Daud, fresh into her second decade, and sometimes her recklessness preceded her. 

Jordan, for her part, at least knew better than to struggle against Daud's grip. Her eyes darted to Rulfio, then back to Daud; she put her hands up, swearing. 

"Okay, okay, shit, you caught me. Now let me up you assholes."

"Not until you explain what you were thinking, shooting me in the fucking sewer," Daud growled out, his teeth grinding together in anger. 

"There's… there's a hit on you, Daud."

It was Rulfio who responded. He sounded defeated, almost ashamed. Daud swore, nearly dropping his blade as he turned to Rulfio, livid.

"There's a hit on me and you didn't tell me? Since when?" 

"It's that prick, Brimsley," Jordan supplied. "Said he was threatened by you, that you killed someone else and he wanted you gone. It's good pay, you know," she twitched, her eyes darting between the other two assassins. "15,000 coin, Daud. I thought it'd be easy enough, but he didn't say you were a heretic too." 

"I'm not a heret--" he cut his own words off with a groan, finally pushing Jordan away in anger. His claws left no marks, for which he was grateful. She rubbed at her neck anyway, trying to ease the pain away, checking for blood. "Whatever. Fuck Brimsley. I'll kill him myself and collect my own bounty." With an annoyed grunt, he pulled the bolt from his arm, letting it clatter to the floor, unphased by the blood weeping from the wound. 

"Does that even hurt?" Jordan asked, stupefied. 

"Like a bloodfly sting," he responded. Jordan blanched. 

"Yeah okay, fuck Brimsley, you're a scary man, Daud. 15,000 isn't even close enough to be worth it. 20,000 maybe. But Outsider's ass, you really ate two bolts like it was nothing." 

"Yeah, well, at least you didn't try to kill me," he said, and his mind remembered that grey wolf's-- Jerome, his name was Jerome, he reminded himself, sickened--split neck, stitching itself back together. "There's a good chance it wouldn't have worked." 

"I wager not," she said, her wide, nervous eyes trailing the scars on his face. "So what, you a fuckin' witch now? Give your soul to the Void so you can't ever die?" 

"He's a whale-wolf now, Jordan." Rulfio said gruffly. Daud spared him a glance; Rulfio was watching him carefully, but there was no skepticism in his gaze. Daud savored the small amount of vindication that brought him, before turning towards Jordan's laughter. 

"Yeah, right. Those are just fiction, Rulf. I know you love your conspiracy theories, but seriously? A whale-wolf? I'm supposed to just believe that?" 

Rulfio flushed, the grip on his blade tightening with the creak of leather. "Did you not see what Daud just did? He disappeared and then reappeared like it was nothing. He's even Marked--or tattoo'd, depending on how you see it."

"Don't need to be a giant beast to use magic, Rulfio." 

"Oh? You think those witches you see at night aren't also beasts too? You think Granny Rags isn't more than just an old crone?" 

"You ever see Granny look like a giant monster? No? I didn't think so! But she still brews those concoctions and talks to rats and leaves carved bones lying about!" 

"Just because you ain't seen it doesn't mean it's not true," Rulfio defended. 

"Shut the fuck up, both of you," Daud finally snarled, his whole body bristling. Jordan and Rulfio both stilled, acquiesced, though Jordan's eyes still darted skeptically between them. "Rulfio isn't wrong, Jordan… I got attacked. In these very sewers, even. It's not something I really enjoy, but--  

"Show me, then," Jordan bit out, stubbornness taking over as she steadied her crossbow at Daud, "or I'll turn you over to the Overseers. I bet they'll give me more coin for a marked heretic than Brimsley will for your head." 

Daud sighed, aggravated. "You can't be serious." 

"And if I am?" She tilted her head. "What, you suddenly shy or something, Daud?" 

He snarled, the sound rumbling out from deep in his chest. Jordan faltered and Rulfio stepped back; around them, the air grew heavy. He stuck out his left hand; still gloveless, he clenched it and it burned, the smoke and ash giving away to fur and muscle. Jordan's eyes went wide and she lowered the crossbow as Daud's scars glowed hot, the smoke revealing fur and ears. His teeth clashed together as they lengthened in his jaws and became something other than human. Rulfio cursed, Jordan held a silent scream. His bones cracked unpleasantly but he willed the rest of his body to stay put, despite the heaving of his chest and creeping fur down his back. He felt his wounds steam away, the flesh knitting back together with his partial transformation. 

Jordan gaped like a fish. Clearly, neither of them had expected -- this . Daud could hardly blame them. He sneered, his lip curling up, hating the looks on their faces. He let go of his magic; immediately, the fur dissipated, melting away like fog over water. 

Nobody said anything. Daud could feel the anger rising in his chest and his left hand itched. 

"Any other stupid questions?" He rasped out, his voice ruined after the transformation. Jordan just shook her head, the crossbow falling from her hands. 

She ran. 

Daud caught her before she took more than two steps. Rulfio's hand flew to his blade, anticipating a fight. 

"And where do you think you're going?" 

"I'm not sticking around so you can kill me like that!" 

Daud frowned. "I'm not going to kill you." His mouth twisted up into a nasty smile. "Unless you're off to snitch, that is. Then I might reconsider."

"Like anyone would believe me anyway!" She shrieked, her voice cracking up an octave. Then, she relaxed, though the sweat on her brow lingered. "What are you going to do with me then?" 

Daud blinked, then looked at Rulfio, who shrugged. 

"I think you'll just have to come along for the ride, now," he sneered, putting his blade back on his hip. "You followed us down here, after all. Aren't you curious as to why we're here under a dirty old dog fighting pub?" 

Jordan looked skeptical, but Daud knew her curiosity would win out in the end. Her fingers twitched, and she licked her lips. 

"It got to do with that hit you took for Brimsley?" 

"The very one that fucked me up and almost killed me? Yes." 

"Fine. Just don't kill me and leave me a mummy for someone to find in 200 years, alright? I got a lotta living still to do." 

"We aren't going to kill you, girl," Rulfio sighed out, exasperated. That seemed to convince her; she wiggled out of Daud's limp grip and wiped herself off. 

"Alright then. Where to, wolfman?" 

Daud sighed and rolled his eyes; he was already regretting the decision to bring anyone along. But the Outsider had told him to keep his friends close, and maybe this was why. 

"Give me a moment," he muttered, then waved his left hand again, burning through more magic. The Void laid bare the secrets of the world and in his ears, a faint ringing began. He frowned; the sound was like a tuning fork, resonating in his chest and limbs. It tugged him down, deeper under the tunnels, to where the dog fighting amphitheatre was. As his vision returned to normal, he started moving, motioning to the others. 

"It's this way. Come on." 

Chapter Text

Dunwall, The Sewers

Month of Songs, 1820

The sewers stretched onwards, a winding maze if the one traversing them didn't know all the proper twists and turns. Jordan gripped her crossbow too tight, letting the pain in her palm distract from the sweat on her brow, the prickle at the back of her neck. At any moment she still expected Daud or Rulfio to lead her down a tunnel that was sightless and quiet, cornering her and ending her right then and there. It was a legitimate fear, she told herself, considering what she had just seen, had just tried to do… 

She looked warily to Daud, eyes trained on his broad shoulders, watched the tension bunching the muscles under his assassin suit, and swallowed. She had seen what he could do with her own eyes, had seen his fully furred head, ears, teeth… and yet, her brain was still trying to process what the actual fuck it was that she had seen. 

She scrutinized everything, her eyes tracing his lines, looking for anything beastial, anything irregular, anything… inhuman.  

In flickering moments, her eyes would meet with Rulfio's. Those stern Tyvian pupils would look back, saying more with a glance than words ever could, before they went back to following Daud. Rulfio had always been closer with Daud than with her but that didn’t stop Rulfio from being something of a father figure to her. When she was still green in the assassin business, taking bounties that didn't always involve killing, he was there to steady her hand and make true her aim. Void, he wasn't even that much older than Jordan but the experience he carried in his hands was worth decades. 

To see him backing Daud up on this, however, did little to assuage her (she won't call it fear, she can't be afraid, she will miss the shot if she ever needs to—) trepidation over the current situation. If she had known that Daud could move faster than she could see, that he could disappear, could grow claws and fur and turn into a monster… 

She bit down on her cheek until she tasted blood. Brimsley owed her for this. She was not experienced enough for this. Nobody in Dunwall had the experience to deal with whatever Daud was now. 

They walked together in relative silence, just hearing the errant drip of water, the splash of a hagfish on its way in from the river. She watched the water ripple with unseen movement and her fanciful ideas wandered until her head was filled with sea serpents and massive swimming rats, with crocodiles and sharp-toothed merfolk. So many thoughts swam in her head that she didn't realize when Daud had stopped, nearly running into him. 

“Hey, what—” 

A hand came up to silence her and she obeyed, jaw working hard enough she could hear her teeth grinding into dust. Another glance to Rulfio, looking for some sort of answer. He met her eye and just nudged his head forward; they had stopped outside of a large door, probably to a maintenance room.

“It's in there,” Daud said, his voice filled with an unknown emotion. For whatever reason, Jordan watched him… hesitate? Daud didn't hesitate for anything; hesitation for an assassin was death. The sweat on her neck rolled down into her shirt and she blamed only the summer heat for how much the world closed in on her.

It was suffocating to stand still. When Daud didn't move fast enough, her impatience moved instead. Growling, she pushed past both of the men and rushed the door until it shifted. 

It was heavy and slippery but that didn't matter; Jordan threw her whole back into it.  After a moment’s resistance, the door shuddered and relented, scraping against the concrete before fully swinging open. 

Inside, a large amphitheatre with a huge domed cage showed itself to the trio, the seating lined in such a way that anyone in the audience could look down and into the center arena. On the walls and floor lay the evidence of what last happened here; Jordan’s eyes lingered on the gouged stone, the banged cage walls, the massive amount of splattered blood, and, upon further inspection, the half-eaten body of a man on the floor. 

It's not like it's her first dead body, but it's clearly been here a while and there's a difference between a fresh kill and advanced decay . Bones and mummified skin sat inside scraps of clothing while angry flies buzzed around, leaving their maggots to finish the job other bigger animals couldn't. The smell wasn't in the putrid stage anymore, but it was still awful and stale, like it had been left to mold rather than rot. 

“A lovely place to enjoy some drinks,” she groused, nose wrinkling. She turned back to the men; Rulfio looked pale while Daud was busy investigating the huge claw marks on the stone, the depth and width of their size. She frowned, tossing her hair out of her face. “What's with that face, Rulf? You ain't never seen a dead body before?” 

It was a friendly tease but Rulfio just averted his gaze anyway, watching Daud, addressing him first. 

“So, is this… is this where…” It was like he couldn't finish the sentence but he motioned to the ruined side of Daud’s face. 

Daud shook his head, brow furrowed and sharp. “No, this isn't where Jerome attacked me, this is the hound pit itself. He was chained up, blinded, forced to fight dogs for the money and the entertainment of disgusting people. I watched a pit hound split his neck wide open,” he pointed to the huge blood stain on the floor, more blood than a human could spill. “Bled him until he died, and then the bastard just— came back. That sorry sack of meat was already trying to collect his dog when Jerome came back to life. Too close, got sliced to ribbons.” 

Rulfio nodded, his face paling further as he studied the mummified remains, but Jordan's frown only deepened. 

“Hey, you guys want to clue me in here? Are you talking about the same Jerome who went missing a few months back? What's he got to do with this?” 

Daud's sharp blue eyes found her and she had to fight the urge to step back. 

“He's got everything to do with this. Fink and his brother have a sick experiment happening down here, leading chumps to get killed by a monster, or worse, become a monster themselves.” 

“What? You're telling me Jerome—” she pointed to his face, but the steely face looking back told her the answer. She whistled, hands going to her hips. An awkward moment while her foot twitched in a tune only she can hear. 

“So, what, he still down here?” 

“No.”

“You know for sure?” 

“I killed him.” 

“Even though you just said he came back from a ripped throat?”

“I saw the body.”

“Oh.” A pause. “And any others?” 

Daud blinked. Had the audacity to look confused for half a second. 

“Others?” He repeated, his harsh voice breaking. Jordan searched for something else to look at than his unnerving (inhuman) gaze. 

“Yeah, you know…” her arm waved. “Others. Other monsters. You said people come down here and get killed or become monsters. Which means Jerome couldn't have been the only victim, right? Someone had to-to change him too.” 

The horror was plain on his face; he hadn't considered this. Rulfio looked even more hardened, more concerned. 

“You brought me down here without thinking there might be more of these monsters running around?” Rulfio's voice was scarily even and deadly sharp. Jordan sensed the storm brewing, the return of the argument the men were having earlier. “I’m not about to let you lead me to an early grave, Daud!” 

Daud, to his credit, managed to look hurt, but it was hidden too quickly under a rising tide of anger. 

“I didn't know, Rulf, because when I crawled out of this pit half-dead, nothing was here. I don't know if there's anything else but—” Then, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and stalked away from both of them. 

“You asked me to trust you, Daud, and I do, but I don't want to be what you are, I didn't sign up for black magic and voices in my head and whatever other evils you're still hiding!” 

Jordan chewed on her cheek more, getting the creeping feeling she's privy to a conversation she was never meant to hear. Her eyes remained on Daud, watching as his hand waved, glowing and smoking. Then, his eyes were looking somewhere else, watching something else, through the walls and floor. The prickle at the back of her neck returned and her eyes widened as she realized, belatedly, that he was doing something magical again. 

Eventually his breath returned to normal and he looked back to Rulfio, his clawed (Outsider's ass when did that happen?) hand shaking out and back to normal (Is human normal for him now? Or is the beast normal?). Her head swirled with questions she couldn't ask, both awed and horrified that her fellow assassin had come across something so wondrous and terrifying. Rulfio still seethed; she worked to pick her jaw up off the ground. 

“From what I can sense, if there is anything here, it isn't just openly roaming around. But there… there are others, it looks like. Nobody fully changed but there were bodies in what looked like cages, maybe…” He squinted at the wall, as if being able to see through it with his naked eye. 

Rulfio sighed, ragged and annoyed. 

“And we're going to go and find them, aren't we?” Daud gave him a look: something apologetic, something imploring. Rulfio groaned loudly, rolling his eyes. 

“You're an Outsider's bastard for this, literally,” he complained, checking the sword at his side and his pistol at the other. “You promise me right now, Daud, that I'm walking out of here in one piece.” 

“I won't let them hurt you,” he affirmed, a deep conviction in his words. He looked to Jordan as well. “Both of you. I killed one already, I'll do it again, if I must.” 

Jordan's heart leapt to her throat, prompting her to clear it. “Well, what are we waiting for, then?” Her voice squeaked painfully. “Onwards, wolfman.” 

------

The Void thundered in his ears like a sour pulse, urging him towards a destination where he didn't know what awaited him. The Outsider had given him this power to hear and listen correctly, but whatever this noise was, it was repulsive as much as it was magnetic. Surely it wasn't supposed to make his head throb and his ears ring and set his teeth on edge. His hand itched and burned so much he was tempted to chew it off right then and there. The call to leap through the Void, to leave his companions behind was intense beyond measure; he swallowed it down, staying apace as best he could. 

The problem, however, was that he could hardly focus on anything they were saying behind him. 

“So, can I know exactly what we should be expecting when we get there?” Jordan asked, no doubt trying to wrap her head around everything. Rulfio had been filling her in on any other details Daud had neglected to recount, but still, neither of them had any idea what to expect going forward.

And to be honest, Daud didn't know either. What he saw in his Sight didn't make any sense and had only disturbed him; strange bodies had lit up for him like candles, bright yellow against a desaturated world. Sporting long limbs and too-thin bodies, they didn't look like monsters… At least, not yet. 

“ Wolfbanner are gigantic, with claws and teeth and huge bodies that heal wounds,” Daud explained, his voice sounding as if his vocal cords didn't heal right after being slashed apart. “But they can also just as easily look like me. They could be weak from being down here so long. Won't know until we get there.” 

Jordan said nothing else; what else was there to say? They were along for his ride, trusting him with an unknown factor, putting their lives in his hands. 

From the amphitheatre, Daud led them down a long, hidden hallway. From there, they entered a room filled from head to ceiling with large, wired hound cages. Daud had not gone this direction when he was first here, but it's clear Jermone did; the cages were busted as if something massive had run into them and a few blood splatters coated the floor and walls. Nothing was fresh, not even the water left over in forgotten bowls. Daud could hear Jordan exclaim behind him. 

“How big did you say these things get, Daud?” She asked, trying to hide the waver in her voice as her eyes trailed the damage above her head height. 

“Whale sized,” he growled and his sensitive ears picked up the gulp in her throat. His jaw worked and he turned forward, another gaze into the Void telling him they were close. “Come on; nothing ahead of us is close to that big.” And certainly not as big as he could get, not that the idea of what he was capable of brought him any comfort. 

Truth be told, he hadn't fully transformed since that first night. Something about exuding such power, being so massive, so noticeable, didn't sit well with him yet. Maybe it would one day, but not now, not when he still had a shred of humanity left.  

The destruction only continued. Jerome, in the blinded state that he had been in, had spared no time destroying whatever his body could touch once he was freed. Splintered wood, tossed tables, a body under rocky rubble. And yet… 

Daud stopped to inspect a room filled with bookshelves and tables. Papers were scattered across the floor while delicate instruments sat behind broken glass. In places rubble was swept aside, pulled into piles of dust and dirt. Daud frowned, brows knitting together while the other two looted on their own time. The soft clink of coin reached his ear before he heard Rulfio grunt. 

“You might wanna take a look at this, Daud,” he rumbled out, pointing to a flipped board. Daud did as he was told, coming to inspect the scribbled writing in chalk. 

Drawings of a whale-wolf, of its size and properties. Dates of when test subjects were attacked, who lived and who died. The length of time between attack and transformation… something about an “incubation period.” And amongst it all, a paper with the crude scribble of the Outsider's Mark, the same as his, on the back of a clawed hand. 

His insides twisted unpleasantly as he turned from the board, cursing. He sat somewhere between ill and angered, of the thought of those innocent people who asked for nothing getting dragged into this for entertainment. How many died? How many were like Jerome, scarred and blinded and starved in chains? 

“This is so fucked up,” Jordan breathed and his gut clenched even more. Something prickled down his neck and he turned to see both of them looking at him, their faces holding too much concern, too much worry. He breathed out through his nose, hard and angry, all of his features turning severe. 

“I didn't bring you here to throw pity at me, you know.” His teeth felt heavy in his mouth and he willed them to stay normal as his fist opened and closed in agitation. “I'm not like those sorry sacks; I'm alive and I'm not locked up. Those individuals are all dead and gone, and I don't plan on joining them.” 

“And the madness?” Rulfio asks, softly. “What is going to stop that, Daud?” 

He snarled, teeth flashing as he brought his hand up. Jordan flinched, but all he did was let the Mark hidden under his glove burn hot enough even they could see it. His claws grew long and he was tempted to stop time, to jump through the Void, to get away from those scared eyes and those judgemental frowns. Instead, he yanked his hand back down, letting the smoke and ash fade away. 

“Do you think me so weak? You think I crawled out of this pit, with my face looking the way I did, to let madness take me? The god of the Void himself decided he wanted me to live, and that magic keeps me here and as myself. I don't intend for that to change any time soon.” 

He stalked out, ignoring their glances and willing away the fur trailing down his neck and over his shoulders. He didn't need to lose control here, in front of them, not when it wasn't their fault. But also he needed the space, needed some place where he could burn off energy and not be looked at like a freak for it. 

As soon as they were out of earshot, he clenched his clawed fist, rushing through the Void. The sensation was cooling against his angry-hot skin, the icy plunge a balm on his emotions, moving the humid air around his body. He jumped again, breathing in the smoke and ash and letting it settle in his chest like the draw from a cigarette. One more, and then another—

Suddenly, he found himself hanging in midair.

He had transversed out of the sewer pipe and above a lower room, sunlight bursting down allowing the whole circular area to be illuminated. It only took a moment of his suspension to realize where he was and why, perhaps, he was unconsciously drawn here. Beneath him were the cages, and through the Void, he could see their sleeping bodies. 

His fist clenched and in an instant he was rushing to them, appearing in front of them in a blink. As the world returned and air rushed back in, he could hear the echoing calls of Rulfio and Jordan. Looking for him, no doubt, as if he would answer their calls like a dog off a leash. If anything he wished now more than ever they would quiet down and act like Void-damned assassins. 

The irony in that, of course, being he was the only assassin in the Isles who actually was Void-damned.

They called for Daud. Daud didn't call back to them. Instead, his attention was pulled fully to the cages and their inhabitants. 

Inside, humans groaned and stirred, but they were only human in passing. Their eyes glowed in the gloom, their limbs long and their chests deep. Strange, heavy breathing escaped mouths thick with mismatched teeth, and broken and brittle nails grew from skinny fingers. Their clothes, if they had any at all, were ripped through, their feet deformed into strange shapes. As one of them locked eyes with Daud, he felt the trickle of a poisoned mind reach his and he recoiled, locking his emotions down and stepping away. 

The rippling growl he heard was his own, escaping out of his chest. 

“Ugly Turned.” 

Heavy footfalls approach from behind him, followed by a metallic scraping. Daud whipped around, his teeth lengthening of their own accord as his lip curled back into a snarl. He crouched into a fight stance, hand hovering over his blade. 

A man approached him, tall and hugely muscled. His head was hairless but only because it was shaved down, his prominent ears sticking out all the more for it. His severe face didn't hold much intelligence, but that was less worrying than the thick heated crowbar he held in his gloved hand. 

“Come to save them, filthy dog? They won't listen.” The man dwarfed Daud by at least two heads: as soon as he was close enough he swung hard for Daud's shoulder, but Daud was leaping away far before the blow landed. The swings were slow, uncoordinated; this man didn't know how to fight outside of brute force. Easy enough to deal with. 

Daud sneered, eyes flashing, and he called on the Void to stop time fully around him. All noise and all movement ceased, giving him full permission to rush his attacker, his sword unsheathing, shining and angry. 

“Won't work,” the man rumbled out, side-stepping Daud's sword swing and countering him easily. The hot metal rod hit Daud squarely in the ribs and his grasp on time dropped. His breath rushed out even as air and sound rushed in; his body toppled, rolling from the force of impact. Black, oily claws grab at his side, assessing if the rib was broken or not. His attacker stalked slowly over, unbothered. 

“You think you're special? I'm special too. Master makes me stronger than you ever will be.” The man brought the crowbar back over his head, looking to smash it into Daud's head. That was, if Daud hadn't already transversed through the Void; the metal clanged loudly onto the wet concrete, sending water droplets flying on impact. He reappeared, ending up behind the Brute, inching closer instead to the holding cages.

Too close, apparently, for the inhabitants behind bars. Wet, wild snarling started up and long, now-sharp claws swiped at his ankles from wherever they could reach. His teeth snapped at them in a bid to intimidate them away but nothing swayed them; their wide eyes held no self-preservation anymore. 

“See? Won't listen,” the Brute reminded him, voice deep and slow. “They’ll only listen to me. Wanna see?” 

He raised a gleaming hand, his smile broken and nasty. Behind Daud, the snarling grew deeper; bones snapped and whines dripping in whalesong ripped out of their throats. In horror, he turned to see their bodies lurching, heaving, changing…  

Metal groaned and claws pushed against bars, bending them like rubber. Their cages were far too small for the monsters those poor souls were destined to become. It was mere seconds before all of them would be bursting forth, rushing him, or worse…

A quick thwip and a heavy thud reached his ears and the man yowled, grabbing at his magical hand. A crossbow bolt had pierced his palm and he bent over, clutching his wrist, but not before another bolt was loosed and buried deep into his thickened thigh. The smell of blood filled his nose and drove the caged wolves into a frenzy as they pressed against their bars. His heart thudded too fast, whales singing in his ears so loud he almost missed the three pistol shots, the gun unloaded. The Brute definitely ate at least one of those bullets but Daud knew better; if that man was exactly like him, then he'd survive. He'd live. 

Through yowls of pain the attacker disappeared, and Daud knew he had fled. However, his absence didn't stymie the chain reaction already in place behind him.  He leapt away, gaining distance; soon those captives would no longer be captives. Blood and fur and screeching came from the cages and he could feel his body lurch and heave in response. 

Fur rippled across his neck and back. He brought his searing hand up to his face, as it stretched and grew and lost its humanity, and he laughed. 

“Fine, you mangy dogs, come to me! Fight! We will see who among us is truly mad!”

His thoughts thundered outward, not caring what minds he touched, and he had the satisfaction of watching at least one of those dogs stop and whine. But then the hinges broke, those mangled bodies poured forth, and his cackling, sharp-toothed smile was all that was there waiting for them. 

------

That wasn't Daud. 

There was no way. Everything in Rulfio's senses was rejecting what he was experiencing, what he was seeing, like a horror story becoming reality. Despite everything he had learned in the last few hours of his life, seeing it, bearing witness— that was another thing entirely.

And what he was bearing witness to, was the form of Daud heaving, smoking, growing, all while four amalgamations of fur and flesh bore down on him. 

Thinking fast, Rulfio grabbed Jordan and pushed her away from the ledge of the sewer pipe, keeping her as far away from this new pit as possible. She naturally protested but he gripped her arm tight, his eyes serious as they searched her face. 

“Get out of here. Now.”  

Her eyes were wide and terrified, darting from him to the commotion down below them. Rulfio shook her again, pulling her in, dominating her visual space so all she looked at was him. 

“But, but I heard him? Daud, in my head…” 

“Jordan listen to me! If you stay here, you will die, and I'm not about to have that on my conscience.” 

“But what about you?” She gasped. A sound like screaming whales reverberated through the room, shaking Rulfio's whole chest and limbs. He pushed her away again as she winced, whimpering from the noise. 

A huge thud. A cry of pain followed by a wet, squelching noise and the snapping of bone. Rulfio refused to turn and look. Jordan paled as the sounds worsened. 

He urged her harder, shoving against her until she was in the other rooms, further away. 

“Go back the way we came,” his voice shook but his hands were still steady. “Once you get to the ampitheatre, go to the right of the doors. There is a sewer outlet three clicks down, it should drop you into Rudshore—” 

Something shuddered the concrete they were standing on and Rulfio's head was filled with a dark, wild laughter. The giddiness of the other mind was enough to overwhelm his own feelings of fear, but he shook it off. Jordan still gaped, too terrified to move. 

Rulfio growled, his teeth gritting together as he pushed her as hard as he could. 

“GO!” He yelled, and that seemed to wake her up. She picked herself up, turned, and ran back into the sewer, leaving Rulfio alone. 

But he wasn't really alone. His breath was ragged, filled with the tumultuous thoughts of another, of someone in the throes of a killing spree. His limbs shook and he closed his fists, steeling himself to turn around and witness the carnage. 

It was more than even he expected. 

A huge wolf monster, black fur glistening with wet-red blood, towered in the center of the room, biting down on the neck of one of the last remaining test subjects. Its dying screeches were unearthly and nothing like what the wolves of Tyvia sounded like during the winters of his youth. It thrashed against the vice of his teeth but then he shook and it's neck snapped, blood gushing out and pooling on the floor in dripping rivers. His head raised up, pulling the neck with his jaws until it was snapping, rending, pulling away from the main body. Twitching, tongue lolling from a lifeless mouth, the prize was pried fully away, tendons giving way in a gorey mess. Daud’s huge hand grabbed it from his mouth and tossed it aside, where it wetly hit the ground, bouncing until it splashed into a puddle, contaminating it. Then, as if an afterthought, his head bent and bit into the creature's shoulder, popping the arm out with a tug, as if he was simply spatchcocking a chicken. 

The other bodies were sprawled out in similar fashion; in the minutes it took for Rulfio to convince Jordan to run, the monster that had once been Daud had completed his wet and gruesome work.

 And now, he was feasting on his kill, teeth crushing bone and tearing flesh. 

It was too much. Rulfio made a strangled noise before his feet gave out and he fell to his knees at the sight and smell of it all. He couldn't have run after Jordan, even if he had wanted to.

A long ear twitched, an eye opened, and suddenly a huge head was turning towards him. This was it; Rulfio’s once-friend brought him to the place he was killed, to be killed in turn. Or maybe worse, maybe he'd wake up tomorrow just as scarred and cursed as the man he once knew, the man who no longer existed, because Daud would never, he wouldn't—

When the curious tendril of emotion extended towards Rulfio, he could feel nothing but nauseated as a response. Concern, worry a small amount of fear. Rulfio shut his eyes, pushing that mind out, feeling it recoil apologetically. When it was gone, he expected to feel claws against his body, white hot and burning, teeth at his neck as he became the next meal—

The seconds passed and Rulfio counted each one. No blow came. No noise of breaking bone or squelching blood reached his ears. Just the drip of water, steady and infuriating. 

“Rulfio.” 

Daud's voice was so close it nearly gave him a heart attack. Eyes flying open, he gasped, seeing Daud standing in front of him. He fell backwards, crawling away before standing back up. 

“Get away from me,” he blabbered, trying to get his breath back, to steady his hammering heart. “Get the fuck—” 

He caught a glimpse of Daud's face, of the expression that would haunt him for weeks and months to come. The hurt hanging on those shoulders, the damaged look in his eyes, silent agony even under that layer of blood and grime and gristle. Rulfio tried to rescind, tried to reach out but it was too late. 

The whisper of Void tickled at his ear. He blinked and in that moment, Daud was gone, vanished, and not a trace of his emotions lingered behind in his wake.