#(what will he do with the gifts he brought for jessamine)

[no-light-left-on]

thinking about just how sudden and cruel Jessamine's assassination was. Corvo and Emily suddenly ripped out of their regular lives.

Corvo has only just returned after months of being separated from his family. he only stepped off the ship, barely made it to the Tower, didn't even walk through the front door before he watched Jessamine be murdered. his luggage was probably still on the ship, all his dirty clothes, warm coats for Tyvia and light silks for Sekonos, his journal and maybe a spare weapon, the nice coat for when he is meeting up with the rulers of the different isles. the little gifts he most likely collected through his travels across the Empire, for Jessamine and for Emily and maybe some members of the Tower staff that he is fond of. did he bring back candy he loved as a child so that Emily could finally try them? where did his personal correspondence go?

what about Emily? she was taken and kept locked up in the Golden Cat, and we hear her mention her doll, but what other things were left behind? her favourite cup, the plants at her windowsill? her collection of drawings, and the notebooks she kept for her lessons, paints and music instruments that she was learning to play as every proper lady should? where are her favourite fairytale books now? her wardrobe, her favourite shoes, the little hair ornaments Jessamine would tuck into her hair for all the parties and balls?

and what of Jessamine? with no family to set away memorabilia, sort through her things, her diaries and notes and letters that were waiting for an answer? the private ones, that she kept hidden away so no one could read them but her? did she have a favourite tea blend that now sits abandoned in the Tower kitchens?

we do not see their rooms, once we return to the Tower to take out Burrows. it is almost like the royal family never existed, and I must wonder: what happened with what remained behind of their lives, after Jessamine died?

[libidomechanica]

But euer that yearning sun

A tricube sequence

               First Stanza

Nothing sich. She took growling, prayed. And

less it shoulders, if rather dry. There

lies with me in one; she scared him; life!

               Second Stanza

And nip each other. Nor can Juno

sweet, so ripe a judgment. Then, is not

it at all. Unto their heart. Mankind.

               Third Stanza

By yours, have grownd, and runs the cast a

shawl. ’Tis paid price, and of heath, my dear!

The heart and sitting so and singing?

               Fourth Stanza

But there’s a hole, where you go then,

they’d understand. And eddied into

one wide world your dreams speak the treasure.

               Fifth Stanza

Were slick-faced. My heart. Art. All over

kingdom come. Julia, when he chewed the

Braine. She lived under the cold hill side.

               Sixth Stanza

You affected such a noose, his issue,

and turning eyes! Her next amusement

jessamine stirr’d by heav’nly fires.

               Seventh Stanza

Which cruddles the grinning sand. All

beautiful, a faery’s song. A Chapel

were that either to the floods and arms!

               Eighth Stanza

’—Do not still to hear her tender-taken

breathing doen high Towers in that

learne to cry for, live for what? Mr.

               Ninth Stanza

Fawn came flying while I strove,—guess now

become the body gryde. Painter, sculptor,

critic I—would cry when my arms.

               Tenth Stanza

We Carmelites, like a Lord alone,

I marry the bed. Till in the

letters took the gifts; he said the chart.

               Eleventh Stanza

There is no remedy, it is most

wretch, in whom all that did perfumed altar-

stair. I hope so—though there we’llpause.

               Twelfth Stanza

Remarks, be sure, twas gold too fine to

sound betrays in silence and sit in

parliament; the dews on quench with him?

               Thirteenth Stanza

Spiders. As the world, ’ when I am,

first snowdrop, virgin daughter held, was

all its ears be shed over the hills.

               Fourteenth Stanza

Feasted us, and brought it, at all.

No other voice, I brought mought vs

many a long to burdenous smart.

               Fifteenth Stanza

Faded the flying nymph with emotion,

but to the break her troth? Are peeping

to Her unconditional love?

               Sixteenth Stanza

Is faded Oake, whose course! A rose-bud

by my soul at all that looked more

cleverness, we gained. And bowing we want.

               Seventeenth Stanza

Would wed, my father high, for a marriage

without the Prior and fell beat

to this. And what he singing, and wine.

               Eighteenth Stanza

For A’s and B’s, and half this Ambitions.

Scrawled the grasses a goat stirs with

numbers such prompt disemburdening.

               Nineteenth Stanza

Silver sickle of the climax of

his age! To say: I am Lazarus,

come from custom, and sorely hurt.

               Twentieth Stanza

It shall I go, of the crickets ticked

together I would that man is! Knowing

through felonous force, thunder Nay!

               Twenty-first Stanza

—That is—you’ll fine; brother! That frown aside,

and smiling. Some found with me, Sir,

entered on the abyss of the well?

               Twenty-second Stanza

A thousand years, how say on Diggon,

what a mortgage was. And hoary wyth

frost. An expensive thing like beauty.

               Twenty-third Stanza

To one, one pleasing, well is knowne that

Psyche, Lady Blanche. Much flattering

retreat of dusty fights as he blame.

               Twenty-fourth Stanza

In vain; all night has thee true. In this

moment! Of faded lockes fall and

Meg. There lies and strolled between us.

               Twenty-fifth Stanza

Knowing thy Father way was left I

came. Bene, with a hollow throte. Mark

how one string of Michelangelo.

               Twenty-sixth Stanza

The rising moon, and gilte Rosemaree?

Let this is my meat and low, wind of

power; your own, as Lady Psyche.

               Twenty-seventh Stanza

And death—thou nondescript! A blessings

on my heart would follow, thou foster-

child of silent seas. Here lies a bright?

               Twenty-eighth Stanza

Tho’ matching bones lie in a letters,

will not matter; I have been faithful

to the scaffold’s down? The last I spoke.

               Twenty-ninth Stanza

Much for a hundred maidens loth? In

all God’s will grin. And hark the chance so

happen—deeds, with my heart, and so tall?

               Thirtieth Stanza

She spoke, not I. More brave that will. Which

only is higher things in sheer despite,

and often halowed with oats!

               Thirty-first Stanza

The flow’ring this is not conscience, it

should die, than the stretch the prince; no doubt.

Who am not Princess; she, you mark?

[slytherinprincess83]

CHAIN OF IRON SPOILERS🚨

Quick thoughts on Chain of Iron:

i absolutely adore Cordelia x James, but also getting tired of it, they get close, then embarrassed and nothing happens, and they are so dumb😂 after making out with your friend for four times, marrying them, being super domestic etc. and still thinking they don't love you?? "you are my constant star, Daisy".

Lucie x Jesse happened pretty quickly but they have been friends for 4 months and Lucie is trying to help him so it makes sense i guess. It's still cute, i love how protective Jesse can be.

THOMAS X ALASTAIR IS ONE OF THE BEST THINGS TO EVER HAPPEN!! They didn't get enough development but i'm glad they didn't immediately start dating, they have a lot of bad blood between them, the Merry Thieves hate Al, etc. i need to see some courting in CoT.

Anna x Ariadne/Kamala isn't that interesting tbh, i feel like Ari/Kamala is harassing her even if it's for a good reason. Anna shouldn't change herself for anyone.

Lucie is becoming a really interesting character, i hope she does some questionable things in CoT.

James = Harry in the Order of the Phoenix.

The conflict and secrets were so compelling, not everything is going to be smooth, open and happy. There was too much stuff about romance and sex (cough Jordelia cough), i wanted to see more of the friendships. Fairstairs brotp is superior, the love triangle is so unnecessary and Math is going to get his heart broken again.

my first guess was that somehow Belial and Tatiana brought Nate back to life (his last words were about forgiviness, Jessamine was his wife, Lucie saw a famialiar looking ghost in Tatiana's greenhouse) so my jaw was on the f-ing floor and for a second i thought Jesse was the killer, like he seduced Lucie and tricked Grace, that would've been so juicy.

How long has been ms. Clare planning this?? Cuz there was that mini Jack the Ripper story in Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy.

Will Herondale's whole existence is a gift to the universe. Also, Charlotte has been the Consul for 25 years?? Queen.

i actually like Grace now, she had no choice but to do what Tatiana wanted but didn't turn evil. i hated the ending with her ruining things again. Just be happy please.

Grace x Christopher would be cute, but imagine if they are aro/ace and become friends. Grace understanding science, being comfortable with Kit and not wanting to use her powers on him.. Amazing.

Fuck the Clave, why is the government always so stupid??

Alastair is the best big bro ever. Can't understand how anyone could hate him.

Eugenia Lightwood deserves so much appreciation, her wit and attidute is *chef's kiss*.

i was freaking out about Hypatia's shop and Malcolm because of the Dark Artifices😂 and i'm scared for the Wicked Powers, Sammael was already in tLBotW, now 2 Princes and Lilith?

In conclusion, my top 3 ships are Thomastair, Gracetopher and Jordelia (if they mess up again then i'll replace them with GhostWriter), top 5 characters are Alastair, Lucie, Matthew, Anna and Cordelia.

[purplebass]

Was just thinking about the parallel of grace controlling guys and lucie controlling deades (yes I know grace does it by making them believe they are in love and not lucie)

Hi anon!!! Yes, you’re right about this parallel. 

Grace received her power as a gift, while Lucie inherited it and only recently found out what she may do with it. Both are tricky powers, because they can do harm if not used with caution. We already saw that the main goal of Grace’s power was to manipulate men in order to get what she wanted (what Tatiana wanted, specifically). Grace did not decide to have this power. On the other hand, I believe that she would gladly give it up, if given the chance, because it would prevent her from forming genuine relationships. And she is already alone. Her only friend was Jesse, but he died. Although she doesn’t have friends, she is easily noticed by other people during events, because she is a beautiful girl. No idea if this is also part of her power.

As for Lucie, her power is also quite dark. She also bends ghost to her will, mostly unwillingly in the beginning, then she commands them only when they ask her to. Unlike Grace’s, her power impacts more folks. In fact, I believe that if Lucie wanted and it comes down to it, she may command an army of ghosts who would help her against Belial. She has more friends compared to Grace, yet, despite being very sociable and attracting, she is often overlooked. Lucie is that friend who is friends with everyone but in the end, no one really knows her for who she really is. Same goes for Grace. Grace also has social issues because of the way she was brought up.

Both powers take the other person/ghost’s freewill off when they use it. This also reflects on Belial’s purpose to wanting to posses James and ending up possessing Jesse. James is alive, he has a conscience. He can decide whether or not he wants Belial to make use of him. Jesse is dead, therefore only his soul has a conscience, while his body is merely a vessel/anchor, like Belial said. So when James could react and refuse, Jesse couldn’t. It’s the same for Lucie and Grace. Lucie is trying to use her power consciously, while Grace hasn’t done so for the most part she’s had it (because she also feared the consequences on Tatiana’s part. Grace wanted Tatiana’s approval and love, and thought that by bending to her wishes, she would get it). Grace’s freewill is also taken away because of the emotional abuse she’s suffered. It took her a while to find the strength to be free from the chains that bound her to Tatiana and Belial, which is also represented by the gracelet breaking down. Opposedly, Jesse regained his will (I hope) after Lucie knitted his soul back to his body. 

Men can’t help but fall for Grace and do what she wants, and ghosts do the same with Lucie. Except, Grace’s power didn’t work on James (and therefore, she needed the gracelet). Maybe because James was half warlock/half shadowhunter - so he’s not ordinary. He had been unaware until the end, though, thinking that there was something wrong but not understanding exactly what it might be. In Lucie’s case, it was Jesse who pointed out that ghosts don’t want to be commanded. He might have told her because unlike other ghosts, his conscience/soul is still anchored partly in the world of the living. He is also “odd” like them.

I believe that what will happen to Grace in COT is also a reversal of what may happen to Lucie. No one knows about Lucie’s power like no one knew about Grace’s power. Only Jesse and Jessamine witnessed what Lucie can do (one intentionally, the other, not), but since they were/are ghosts, they have told no one. As for Grace, only Tatiana and Belial knew about her power. Both of their powers might become known in CoT. If Grace hasn’t ran away after James locked her in the drawing room, she may have to face the Clave. She went to James to seek protection from Tatiana. In a way, she would be more protected if she were held in the Silent City, however depressing and unjust that may be, rather than if she runs away. 

I wonder what would the Clave say about this power, considering its potential. Because the Clave looks at James and Lucie and Tessa warily, but they don’t say anything because they are influential and are friends with people in high seats like Charlotte. Grace only has Tatiana, who doesn’t hold any influence in the shadow world. And James’ power (if it’s only about him turning into a shadow and travel through realms, that is - we don’t know) doesn’t seem like a threat to the Clave. Not like Lucie’s power may be. She brought Jesse back to life (or she just ordered him to live and we find out he’s still dead?), and she can command ghosts. She could potentially also destroy the shadow world with the power of the dead, if she wanted. The Clave might close an eye about the Herondales being able to see ghosts (since it’s part of their world too, being able to do so), but not about Lucie being tied to something dark like the underworld, and doing something like bringing back someone from the dead. In my opinion, Lucie and Grace will both face the consequences because of their powers, but will be forgiven in the end. But only after they’ve helped the Clave (as usual), like it also happened to Tessa in TID, for example. 

Thanks for the ask! 🌼

[khaleesiofalicante]

The London Institute - 1878

TESSA GRAY

“One must always be careful of books and what is inside them, for words have the power to change us.”

WILL HERONDALE

“I shall charm him with such force that when I am done, he will be left lying limply on the ground, trying to remember his own name.”

JEM CARSTAIRS

“There are so many worse things than death. Not to be loved or not to be able to love: that is worse.”

CHARLOTTE FAIRCHILD

“We are Shadowhunters, and our duty is to each other and to what we think is right. Faith has brought us this far; it will bring us a little farther.”

HENRY BRANWELL

“Mostly they wish that I would stop suggesting new inventions and cease setting fire to things.”

SOPHIE COLLINS

“It's all right to love someone who doesn't love you back, as long as they're worth you loving them. As long as they deserve it.”

GIDEON LIGHTWOOD

"I am not blind, and we are a people of many scars. I see it, but it is not ugly. It is just another beautiful part of the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

GABRIEL LIGHTWOOD

“I realized that I had been mistaken before in putting my loyalty to my bloodline above principle, above everything.”

CECILY HERONDALE

“We must examine not only our reasons for making choices but what result they will have, and whether good people will be hurt by our decisions.”

JESSAMINE LOVELACE

“The way you hated yourself, I understood that...I do not want the gifts of generous hearts. I want to be seen as I am.”

[tragicallywicked]

Words: 1166 Genre: Romance/Fluff Rated: General Audiences Pairing: Alice + Jessamine Summary: Jessamine was not expecting to leave the torturous eternity she had been trapped on, let alone find happiness in little things like lighting up a tree.

Notes: I've said a billion times I won't do new things until I'm done with my WIPs and yet here I am again... This was very inspired on the fanfic Deep Within The Catacomb by @mtwalker and @salmoncenter (which are two writers I adore dearly) who write about a feral Jasper. I changed up a bit on the backstory to make a Jessamine version, but this inspiration is totally due to them, so thanks dears! Enjoy some feral Jessamine and Happy Holidays! ♡

READ ON AO3

Little things always had had the way of triggering Jessamine. It wasn’t simply that her upcoming as a vampire had been different from her siblings, having served vampire after vampire until her fate landed on Alice Cullen’s hands. Jess had been used to being uncontrollable, to be locked away, to speak very little and to follow orders. There were no orders with Alice, no cages and Jess was free to speak. But there were rules.

Dressing properly, going to regular human schools—even though with Jessamine they had tried that once before deciding it was best to have her pretend to be home schooled—and no humans. She had fed on them, for all they knew, during centuries. She was much older than Carlisle and yet her knowledge of some things was very scarce. Alice imagined because Jess would be constantly locked away from society. Jessamine never liked to speak of the past, and Alice didn’t her.

They had learned other ways to converse—looks, smiles, and their gifts—all aiding them to tune in their sync.

Edward could read their minds and he was always impressed of the unspoken, and their shared understanding of it all. It had been who told Alice that Jess liked her more than a master, but Alice already knew even before Jess could come to conclude it all—the psych one had seen the empath fall in love, and the mind reader just saw it all happen in surprise.

Their family was less surprised. They all their loved ones—Carlisle and Esme, Emmett and Rose—it was only Edward the lonesome one who didn’t grasp the appeal. The others had seen Jess fall for Alice, and the other way around too, always in the little things. How Jess hovered Alice protectively, the way Alice brought Jess trinkets from their school time away, how sometimes they just leaned in and basked on one another. They all had seen it, and all were happy they had found shelter.

Alice’s past was unclear, blinded from her past life as a human, and Jessamine’s life had been terrifyingly gruesome. Peace wasn’t common for their kind—especially not for those that served the Volturi in their worst arrays. It was good they had found love together.

She still remembered clearly the day she met Jessamine, in Italy when Carlisle took the family to meet them. Aro was infatuated by Alice’s gift to see the future and wanted to persuade her to join them when he gave her a servant—Jessamine. Alice was appalled. Jess dressed like a slave, nothing like the class of the Volturi. Aro had said she was picked up in the Southern Wars when her coven got killed, but they couldn’t waste her gift, so she kept on being used.

Alice wanted to scream at the Volturi, call them names and barge out of there with Jess, but instead she took the poor thing in, pretending to accept the servant and keep Aro’s offer in mind for a later time.

That night, when they were back at the hotel a few miles from Volterra, Alice helped her bathe, change and even properly feed—presenting for the first time the animal diet—and then she told Jessamine she was no longer a servant, she was free to go wherever she wanted to. It was Jess’s choice to stay. She had nowhere else to go, she knew no one anymore, and had never been treated with such immense kindness. The words hadn’t all been said, but the emotions were shared with Alice��who was for once impressed by something. Jess was their family now.

It took them long to get her used to things, to almost human like life, but progress had been made in the past eight months. She talked more, expressed a little better and even played wrestling with Emmett. But she still followed Alice around, protective like a feral animal.

December came fast, bringing snow and Jessamine’s first Christmas. Alice had been in charge of decorating to Esme’s taste—which recently was very red and gold—and she had dragged Jess along to help.

Some shopping, a little planning, soon enough the entire home was looking like Santa had puked in there. Rose would pass by the living room and see Jessamine lifting Alice to place a start somewhere or hand a string over the fireplace. It was a quirky but adorable sight. Alice was barely five feet and Jessamine was a whole six-foot-tall blonde goddess—Rose had almost felt jealous, had she not liked Jess joining their family so much. As dangerous as Jessamine was, Rosalie had her own reasons to not want a woman to be constantly under abuse of others, and she would defend Jess with her life if it ever became needed.

Jessamine liked everyone in the household, she just had her quiet ways of showing. With Alice she was more blunt, because their bound had grown strong enough for her to feel comfortable with that.

“I think this looks pretty good,” Alice told her quietly, her eyes taking a last look on the result of the decorations. “What do you think, Jess?”

Alice leaned in against her mate, pressing her head to the woman’s front for a moment. Jessamine wrapped an arm would her, pulling Alice closer just a smidge.

“It is perfect,” her voice was low, quiet. That was Jess’s regular, as she had lived so long serving in silence, it was still unusual for her to feel like it was all right to express herself.

“Are you ready to turn on the lights?” Alice jumped in excitement as Jess simply nodded and watched her skip to connect the plugs.

The entire room lit up in a second, the light above the fireplace and the ones they hung around the tree, all a bright sight of the jolly spirit. Jessamine jumped at first, in a state of alert. Alice immediately recalled Jess had never spent Christmas like humans did and possibly had never seen those lights. She felt so foolish, so silly, and worried that she was scaring Jessamine—it was often that new things scared the vampire—that she almost pulled the plug. But her golden eyes grew big as Jess watched the tree and that made her wait.

She looked like a fascinated cat, surprised at the beauty of the holidays.

“Do you like it?”

Jess didn’t move, so Alice came to her, holding her hand.

“Are you—magical too?” She inquired, eyes still wide in awe.

Alice giggled, shaking her head.

“We are, Jess,” she said with a smile. Jessamine gazed her in confusion. “We did this together, remember?”

Her shock was even more evident, making Alice chuckle again.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I’m magical, too,” she sounded happy, and her string of sublime bliss dripped and wrapped around Alice.

She leaned against her tall mate, nodding.

“Yes, you are, Jessie.” She was, after all, Alice’s magical Christmas miracle.

[goldeneyedgirl]

Fic-Mas Day 3: Jessamine & Alice

Day 3 <3 Today I bring you a larger section of the Jessamine/Alice fic I posted about previously; today was meant to be something else but I think it was a really unsatisfying post, so I’ll rework it/find another fic for tomorrow.

Today was spent putting my mother’s giant, elaborate Christmas tree up, so I have no other thoughts. Hope everyone is having a good day!

(Warning for internalised homophobia; ‘//’ signals a time jump, as there are large chunks still unwritten.)

When Alice wakes up, she isn’t Alice.

She just is.

Her eyes open, her lungs fill and she exists for the first time in her memory. Her heart is still in her chest, her eyes draw in every detail of the forest around her, of the grains of dirt in the mud smearing her legs, of the beetle crawling up her leg.

And then she sees the girl with the blonde hair, and that is when the world slowly pieces itself together. Mostly with a soft smile and a gaze that strips her down to the bone, and a soft, “Alice”.

That is when she is Alice. She wants nothing more than to be that Alice, an Alice that inspires that smile, that gaze.

There’s a lot that she still doesn’t understand, and her throat is burning, but she knows two things.

Her name is Alice.

And she loves that girl.

//

Alice has a tiny hotel room in a terrible neighbourhood. It smells of dust and mildew, and is barely large enough for the mismatched bed, wardrobe and desk. The wardrobe is open, and Jessamine sees three dresses hanging there – yellow gingham, red polka-dot and blue floral. They are so small and remind Jess of doll’s clothes, with the ruffled hems, the puffy sleeves, the tiny buttons. She is wearing a filthy tweed skirt and threadbare blouse that was once grey that she peeled off a past meal, and this girl… she has actual tissue paper stuffed into the toes of the shoes in the closet.

Alice is perched on the desk, beaming at her with barely disguised excitement. The emotions that she can feel coming off the tiny girl are ones of excitement, joy, awe and pure adoration. She is utterly charming, with her pink dress and blue coat, her tiny gloves and curled hair.

The clothing Alice has chosen her are… nice. Nicer than she deserves – a dark blue shirtwaist dress, stockings and flat shoes.  A pair of tailored pants and a blouse, in dark blue and yellow. Even underwear, silky and brand new. It is more than she’s owned in seventy years. More than anyone has ever given her.

When she finally emerges from the bathroom, months of dirt and blood washed away, Alice’s eyes light up, at her in her new blouse and pants, her hair damp around her face.

“You are so beautiful,” Alice coos, and is at her side, practically vibrating, and Jess doesn’t know what to say.

The kiss is so unexpected – Alice on her tip-toes, leaning up to kiss Jessamine on her lips. It is a moment so sweet and so impossible, Jessamine freezes and isn’t sure what to do.

This isn’t right. This isn’t right.

//

Alice knew that they would be tentatively welcomed at the Cullens – Jess is apparently rather intimidating (she doesn’t see it herself) and her own gift is a dangerous one. But the Cullens are peaceful people, do not seek out battle when there is any other alternative. They will sooner pack their things and leave, than claim their territory through warfare.

But she also knows that it will be their relationship that will throw the Cullens. That they live the closest approximation of a human life that they can manage. Husbands and wives, daughters and sons, brothers and sisters. There are no grey lines, just right and wrong. She sees religious iconography in her visions of their house, and that worries her a little.

She also knows that this is what Jess needs, more than anything. A peaceful retirement, a place where she is loved for herself, and not what she can do.

//

Once they arrive, it takes a few days for the family to realise. Edward has a pinched look on his face the first time Jess’s thoughts turn away from defence back to her Alice, and she is glad she cannot read Edward’s thoughts, because they would not be flattering. Rosalie has a slightly quizzical expression on her face when she catches Jess dropping a kiss to Alice’s lips in the hallway, and Esme just becomes flustered, but in a sweet way that overcompensates in her desperation not to offend them.

Carlisle is no less gracious to them, though – later – Edward will tell Alice that he was torn. Over the half-remembered lessons of his youth at his father’s knee, at the human principles he clung to with all his life, the ones that have guided him, with moderate success, this far in his afterlife.

But of everything that he has seen in his centuries of life, is a pair of mated females really that extraordinary? The idea that the bond could form between two souls, despite time and gender and all of the other minutiae that had to align is not so impossible, or he would not have found and lost, and then found Esme again.

And he watched them, to see the way they move in sync, the constant contact, the long looks that could be entire conversations, and the peace that surrounded them. To see the way Jess anchors Alice, contains the boundless energy and joy that is the slight girl; the way Alice brings Jess back to life, banishes the ghosts that haunt her gaze.

Carlisle knows that he cannot condemn that sort of soul-deep bond, cannot turn them away for their most genuine love because of old, narrow-minded teachings, because of social expectations that should have been discarded generations ago. Whatever brought them here, they did so for a reason and he will trust in a higher power, and Alice’s visions.

Emmett is the last to realise, in the middle of a hunt, and his mouth drops open, staring between the pair – standing apart from the rest of them, Alice tucked under Jess’s arm.

“They share a room,” Edward says slowly when Emmett splutters, still clutching his bear corpse. Alice can feel the tension in Jess’s body, waiting to protect and defend, should Emmett’s opinion threaten her.

Emmett contemplates them for a second, and Alice can almost see the wheels turning in his head, as he reevaluates their interactions with this new information.

“Oh well. Esme’s still got you to marry off, Eddie,” Emmett says cheerfully, and drags his bear corpse off to be buried and Alice tries not to laugh at Jess’s expression at Emmett’s response, at Edward’s scowl, at Esme’s bright smile at idea of Edward getting married.

//

After Italy, there was celebration, relief, hope. They were coming home to Forks, and everything would be okay once again. Even Edward thought that everything had been righted.

But then, he’d never seen Jess in full-flight. Alice had caught one of her fits of temper in a vision, before Peter went back for her, but had never witnessed the full scale of Jess’s wrath in person. Peter and Charlotte had both alluded to the temper that had made Jess such a legend in the south on occasion – it was rare that she was ever ‘out of control’; usually it was cold rage with a clear aim.

But when she lost her temper, well, neither Charlotte nor Peter had words for it, aside from a warning that it usually involved some property damage.

Perhaps the fact, according to Peter, was that even Maria backed down when Jess was in a ‘confrontational’ mood was the best indicator, to Alice, of how terrible Jess could be.

It was never planned ahead, and Jess was probably second only to Carlisle at keeping Edward out of her head.

The pacing was what caught Alice’s attention, and by then it was too late to stop Bella and Edward from coming into the house. And if her sight was any indication, the sooner the confrontation happened, the better off they’d be.

Edward realised the issue a moment too late, but there was no way to get Bella somewhere ‘safe’. And from the look on Rosalie’s face, it was clear Rose thought that Bella witnessing the result of the trauma of their eternal lives would probably be good for the girl.

“Jessamine,” Edward had said cautiously, and Alice wanted to bang her head against the wall. Only three people called Jess by her full name – Carlisle, as a mark of respect for her age; Alice, on occasions when she wanted to be taken seriously, and Charlotte, as a sign of deference for her former leader and creator. Peter called her Jessie, Maria had called her Major or Majorette, depending on her mood, and everyone else knew her simply as Jess.

For Edward to use her full name was a red flag to a bull, and Alice just knew Edward was going to be without some extremities by the end of this.

Jess hissed outright at Edward, and Bella was backed into the corner, eyes wide. Esme had ghosted over to the human girl, obviously to sooth and protect, and Alice just perched herself on the side table, waiting for the fireworks.

The argument was loud and unspeakably nasty, ending with Carlisle, Esme, and Emmett gaping in Jess’s direction, Jess putting her foot through Esme’s solid oak coffee table, Edward having his right arm snapped clean off at the shoulder, Rosalie enjoying herself immensely, and Jess storming off to cool down.

“I’m sorry about the table, Esme,” Alice hopped off the side table. “I’ve got another one ordered. It should arrive in a few days.”

Bella and Carlisle were already crouched beside Edward, reattaching the severed limb.

“You knew,” Edward said between gritted teeth. She shrugged.

“Did I know she was angry? I did. Did I know she would confront you? Yes. Did I let this happen? Only because if I had interfered, it would only delay the inevitable,” she said. ‘It would have been so much worse, Edward. So, so much worse.’

‘That’s the first time I’ve been scared of her,” Bella said, her eyes wide. Rosalie snorted at that comment.

“Don’t, Rosalie.”  

[fandom-necromancer]

023. I just really miss talking to you

Fandom: Dishonored | Ship: Corvosider

Corvo enjoyed tranquil nights like these: The sky over the Wrenhaven river was clear – a rare occasion with all the dirty grey smoke from the factories and the clouds covering up and drowning out the little shimmering lights within the deep darkness. The moon shone next to the clocktower and for once seemed to win the fight, colouring the water a glittering silver with only the few silhouettes of whaling ships disturbing it. It seemed all of Dunwall decided to show its beauty these past weeks.

It had been roughly a year since he had rescued Emily and brought her back where she belonged: The empress of the isles. A young one. Not more than a child in Corvo’s eyes still, but she was learning fast. She would grow up to be a just woman, he knew it every time he looked at her in this too big throne in this enormous room. He found so much of Jessamin in her although he tried not to. Sometimes when he wandered the halls in the evening, he still saw the dead empress out of the corner of his eyes, sitting there and smiling at him. But when he looked directly at it, she was gone like a leaf in the late autumn wind. Every room screamed of her. There were just too many memories. When he had seen her die, he had no time to mourn. He had to move, to run, to fight. Just to get his daughter back safely. Now that he had the chance, he found himself not being able to. She was gone. Simply as that. Gone. And there were no other feelings than sadness and longing.

Corvo sat at the windowsill of his room, still looking out on the river, eyes somehow finding their way to his left hand. It was rarely bare now that he was in the centre of the public’s attention again. But he missed seeing the Outsider’s mark when he covered it up with bandages or a glove. It gave him some sense of power, some sense of determination or purpose. When he really thought about it, he also missed the strangeness of the void. He dreamed of that confusing place only rarely now and he always was alone there. Just as lonely as he was in this tower full of people who had gone back to normal so fast. The empress was dead, but the new one sat on the throne and made pleasant decisions. Jessamine’s death would only be remembered as yet another day of political interest. Corvo had no one. The only one he could possibly talk to was Emily, but he was supposed to be strong for her. No point in dragging her down with him.

He absent-mindedly brushed over the mark with his other hand, tracing the lines and circles. Sometimes he wondered if there was a meaning behind it. Everything the Outsider said had had a meaning of some kind. He was cryptic and illusive in his ways but still: everything had been true. It had helped knowing someone was watching him. The god wouldn’t help except for his comments. He gave Corvo the meanings to do something but if and how he did it was his personal decision. Together with some encouraging words… Corvo was sure he missed the entity too. He was simply fascinating. Was he too alone? He had only ever seen a whale – the only living creature in the void it seemed despite the man.

Before he could think of any better, he let himself fall out of the window and blinked over to a near roof. It was worth a try and he couldn’t sleep anyways in that empty bed, shared only with a warm memory and the shadow of a man he really was under all these sheets of false pretence. It took him far too long to find a shrine, but Corvo was determined once he got far enough from the tower to at least try and make this journey not completely pointless. He found a few dusty ones not cared after in years and obviously deserted. Corvo wanted to at least find something worth cleaning up. He ended up in the attic of a house which’s roof had given in. But the part with the shrine was still standing, ivy having conquered the ruin.

Corvo knelt down in front of the shrine, dusting off the stand as best as he could before lighting up the lanterns around it until the little attic-corner was filled by a soft purple light. Corvo carefully laid down some trinkets. The tooth of a whale wrapped in copper wire and a piece of violet fabric laced with golden flowers. He had never tried to contact the outsider, maybe what he was doing was a pointless effort. But he had always found something left at the shrines when he had been given the gifts of the Outsider. It couldn’t hurt to try and if it was just for some beggar to find and sell it later. He sat down in front of the shrine and waited. He didn’t know when it had started, but eventually he heard the familiar whispered song emanating around him, slowly dragging him down against the shrine to close his eyes.

Maybe he had fallen asleep, maybe his plea had been heard, but as Corvo opened his eyes again, the void was clear as day. His dreams had always been blurred or smudged, as dreams tended to be, but this felt like the real world. It felt just like it had back then. Corvo let out a deep breath he hadn’t known he had held. The strange reality around him was enough already to feel at home in some way. It was something familiar that for once didn’t remind him of Jessamine and just as tranquil and relaxing as his windowsill had been. He leaned against a floating wall that solidified in his back and took another deep breath of what could be air or something entirely different. Maybe it was air just because he wanted it to be. And it smelled of… distant waves or soil after the first droplets of rain.

‘Hello, my dear Corvo.’ He opened his eyes again, to see the familiar figure of the Outsider. He was thankful to still have perfect memory of the man’s appearance, although it was nearly a year now since they last spoke. ‘I don’t usually indulge those who seek my attention, but yours was… interesting. I can’t and won’t give you new information as you don’t need it. You got everything you worked for so hard, got the best outcome and yet you are not satisfied and come to me. I clearly ask you: what is to give to a man that has all?’ ‘Would you believe me if I said I just really missed talking to you?’ The Outsider remained silent what was no surprise. The entity rarely answered when prompted. Corvo didn’t expect him to. His presence alone was soothing and even if he would send him back to the forgotten shrine in the attic right away, Corvo would be able to hold onto that feeling for a while. ‘I came to the shrine in the hopes of seeing you again, hear your voice and see this place. I don’t want your knowledge. I just seek… company.’ ‘Loss is an element of life. There is no loss without gain. Still you hold onto it. Do you expect me to change that?’ ‘It is a wound only time can heal. I don’t expect anything from you.’ ‘You are… fascinating, Corvo. You came to a place hundreds before you have pleaded at for something. For power, for luck, for change. None of them I have granted attention. You stand before a god willing to give – and you don’t ask for anything. You still amaze me, Corvo.’ ‘Don’t you ever get lonely? This vast place and no living thing. Can gods be lonely? What is your loss, what is your gain?’ Again silence. Corvo expected to wake up again. In all their conversations, he had never once spoke to the Outsider. But again, he got an answer: ‘After four thousand years of loneliness you forget what it means to have company. You learn to accept the silence and cease to be human. My loss is great, my gain is small. But those are human terms. I got to see hundreds of stories, some more boring than others, none as interesting as you. And that is enough.’ The Outsider began fading out and Corvo knew it was time to get back into his world, back to that tower full of dead memories and living shadows. But before he departed fully there still was this voice- this luring voice promising what Corvo had hoped for: ‘For your sake I hope the rest of your story will be uneventful and you won’t need my guidance. But know that I will always be watching and always be listening with great interest.’

[the-siren-saga]

Moirah’s Quest

The ship was quiet as it neared the unmapped subrealm of Altamir'zin. The only sound was the soft mechanical whirring and beeping of the ship's various systems, working hour after hour to keep the crew alive and moving.

"Uvall," Moirah said softly, resting her hand on her assistant's shoulder in an attempt to put the nervous man at ease. "Are we nearly there?"

"Yes, ma'am," the wiry and somewhat high-strung Dekn answered. He hated how easily he seemed to slip into his old timid, servile persona, especially with the great pains that Moirah had taken to make sure he knew it was unnecessary since he'd come into her employ.

"You can just call me Moirah, you know."

Uvall chuckled lightly, though it was more for her benefit than his own. He didn't like seeming traumatized in a way that could be seen as inconvenient. "Ha, yeah, old habits. Sorry 'bout that," he laughed, in a rather forced manner. "But, yeah, we're getting close. I used the codes Lysandra gave us to hack the IFF so the border system thinks we're a Purple Rose ship."

Moirah smiled brightly and patted her assistant on the shoulder. "You're a fucking genius, Uvall. Great work." He really had made a lot of progress since they’d started working together. Moirah was never one for mentorship, but when she met Uvall, she felt there was no other choice. So, she started teaching him her trade– security, diplomacy, information dealing, and infiltration– and found that he excelled in it.

"Hey, we're almost there," Uvall said after a while, before picking up the mic. "Purple Rose vessel 87724 requesting clearance for entry."

A muffled voice came through the other side. "Glory to the Faithful, for we shall ensure His Ascension."

Uvall looked back at Moirah, who flashed him a sympathetic, concerned look. Do I have to? he asked her through their mental link.

Yeah, Moirah replied. I'm sorry, I know it hurts.

Uvall swallowed his pride, giving the countersign. "Glory to the God-Emperor, for by His Ascension shall our faith be rewarded." To his credit, the immense revulsion he had at that phrase didn't really show in his voice.

"Welcome, my brother in service. What's your destination?" the guard asked.

Uvall cringed, but pushed forward, his resolve stronger than steel. "I have a lowly piece of heretical scum with me who requires purification by the Twenty-Second Sacrament."

"Name and division?"

Uvall had been prepared for this, and slipped a new name into the registry. "Jessamine Thallios," he answered immediately. "Of the Samael'evri encampment."

The guard laughed at this. "All the way out there? Well, shit. No wonder she was tempted to heresy so easily."

They have no idea, Moirah transmitted to her assistant. She had changed into a simple white dress and put a glamour on herself, so that to most who saw her, she would appear much younger and less threatening. "Here, dope me," she said matter-of-factly once the radio was off, handing Uvall a vial and a syringe.

"...You sure about this?"

"As sure as I've ever been of anything," Moirah answered in the same brisk tones. "Just do it before they figure out we're up to something."

Uvall performed the injection with the unflinching proficiency of a practiced medic, catching Moirah as the drug began to take effect and bringing her to rest on a gurney that they'd wheeled onto the ship for precisely this purpose. The drug in the syringe was a formula that Moirah had stolen from one of Andras's facilities a long time ago, capable of inducing what looked like a deep sleep while preserving all higher brain function and psionic abilities.

From this point until he woke her up, he would be on his own.

"87724, hang tight, we're bringing you in for processing."

Within a few minutes, Uvall had wheeled Moirah into an expansive brutalist monstrosity of a compound. Processing, as the guard had called it, was a long and grueling series of questions meant to gauge the nature and severity of "Jessamine's" crimes. After what seemed like hours, the session was, mercifully, over. "Through this door," the interrogator said, "then down that hallway until you see a blue metal door with a sign that says CR 1–25. Those are the conditioning rooms. Take her into room ten. Our Eternal Master is here at the facility today, so He will take it from there."

He's here?! Uvall thought to himself, taking refuge in Moirah's shield to avoid anyone else overhearing. "Thank you. Elucidis be praised," he said by way of greeting, bowing his head respectfully. If the interrogator returned the greeting, Uvall didn't stop to acknowledge it.

On the way to the conditioning rooms, Uvall began to get a massive, pounding headache, intercut with moments that seemed to be seen through another's eyes, and cast in a strange, purple light...

"You are a disgrace to me, Malistrade," Marchosias sneered, striking his Consort across the face. "You knew about the treachery of Lysandra Myrrine, her little ‘Random Element’ scheme, and you did nothing to prevent the HARM THAT HER ACTIONS WOULD CAUSE."

Malistrade staggered backward, gripping a table to balance himself. "Master, I… I never intended to aid her by my inaction, there were so many possible futures surrounding the Irinith child's escape that I–"

"Don't try to explain yourself. Your gift belongs to me, just like the rest of you, and you've betrayed me by keeping your visions a secret."

Uvall stopped in the middle of the hallway, nearly doubling over from how clearly he saw and felt everything in that vision. Was that retrocognition, or was Malistrade actually here? Suddenly, he felt very small. Usually, when he saw through the eyes of one of the others in his triad, he could count on Moirah to reassure and comfort him. He could count on her to be there for him until it passed and to remind him to take care of himself while it was happening.

He brushed a strand of hair out of Moirah's face as they neared CR 10. Not much longer now, he transmitted, knowing she could still hear him through the effects of the sedative.

The door to Conditioning Room 10 opened automatically as Uvall entered with Moirah, and immediately, he felt the intensely blissful presence of Marchosias Aversen. Malistrade, who was standing at attention against the back wall, locked eyes with Uvall, and an unspoken contract formed between the two. We protect each other. We have no other choice.

Marchosias, much friendlier and more affable than he'd been in Uvall's vision, stepped forward to greet him. "It's great to see you. I must admit, I don't make it out to Samael'evri very often, but it pleases me to know that even so far from me, there are those of you who keep the faith." He put one hand on Uvall's shoulder, pulling him slightly closer. "Malistrade, guard the door. I don't want anyone walking in on us."

"As you command," Malistrade answered promptly, moving to exit the room and stand guard.

"Now that we're alone– well, alone with the exception of the sedated heretic you've brought me– I think you and I should have a talk."

Uvall scanned the room for things he could use to his advantage. Marchosias's back was turned to Moirah, that was good. He slipped his hand in his pocket, and found the device that Moirah had given him– a device that, when activated, would tell the bracelet around her wrist to produce an electric shock that would wake her from her chemically induced sleep. Not yet, he thought to himself. Soon, but not yet. "Yes, my God-Emperor. Anything you wish."

Marchosias smiled wickedly and looked deep into Uvall's eyes, causing him to reflexively look down. "You know, I very rarely have problems with my Consort. I've trained him well, and his behavior is, most of the time, exemplary. But today, since you've shown up, he seems to have picked up a bit of a rebellious streak." Caressing Uvall's shoulder, he lowered his voice, slipping into a hypnotic baritone. "Now, I wonder why it is that a farm boy from Samael'evri could have that effect on him. Tell me who you are, I want the satisfaction of hearing you say it in your own voice."

"I'm… I'm Ezra Thallios. Jessamine's my sister. If you'll double check the membership manifest, you'll see both our names listed…"

He could feel himself succumbing. The power was too strong– if he kept fighting it, he'd end up like Shanna, with no more strength to resist.

"Nonsense. There is no Jessamine and Ezra Thallios. You are Uvall Candon, and that woman's name is Moirah Averil." Marchosias paused for a moment. "Which means that you brought Moirah Averil right to me. Asleep." He turned to Moirah, cupping her cheek with his hand. "What a prize you've brought me, Uvall. I knew that I could turn that… connection my Consort seems to have with you to my advantage."

"It was easy," Uvall said, thanking the Hethe for making him such a good actor. "She was willing to walk right into the belly of the beast as long as there was even a chance of finding the Herald again."

"She'll do much better in my service. As will you, Uvall. You, and Malistrade, and that unfortunate test subject of Andras's… think of the endless possibilities," Marchosias purred, turning back to Uvall, his voice becoming hypnotic once again. "Say you'll be mine. Say that I own you, that you can't get enough of me, that you long to please me."

"I… I belong to…" It was so easy to fall into this. It felt so nice.

Another vision of another room in another facility much like this. Marchosias whispering into Shanna's ear. "You can walk away from this free and safe, as long as you just… let… go."

"I'm the apprentice of Moirah Averil, and I sure as fuck don't belong to you," he said, activating the device.

Moirah jolted awake and gripped the back of Marchosias's neck before he knew what was happening. Using the same bracelet that had woken her up, she delivered a shock powerful enough to paralyze him, sending him crumpling to the ground. "You… you treacherous…"

"It's not going to work, Marchosias. You know what I can do." Moirah kicked him in the stomach, enjoying the way he was unable to defend himself. "I'd wager that I'm one of only three people in the Lathrym you've ever been scared of."

Marchosias hissed in pain. "I'm not scared of–"

"You're scared of consequences. You're scared of the things you can't break, the things you can't control. You are terrified of random elements, and regardless of anyone else's claims to the title? I'm the most unpredictable of them all. And I bet that just makes you wake up in a cold sweat, doesn't it." She kicked him again, snickering quietly as he cried out. "This is nothing compared to the pain you've inflicted upon others, Marchosias. Nothing. Caris Euphrasia, Laurien Adaire, Timothée Solal, Penperin Ilsenthe, Idele Serrion… Shanna Averil."

"I gave Shanna Averil everything," he spat. "You have no right to take her from me."

She bent down, taking Marchosias's ceremonial dagger from its sheath and holding it to his neck. "Tell me where she is, or I will kill you where you lie."

It's not his time yet, Moirah, Uvall spoke into her mind. Malistrade showed me what must come to pass. There's no way it'll be this easy.

It's not like he knows that, Moirah transmitted in return.

"You think I'd tell you, Moirah? You haven't been very nice to me," Marchosias teased with a confident smirk.

She drew the dagger across his neck, enough to draw blood while not doing any serious damage. "Don't test me," she hissed. "I have suffered too much and lost too many to care if I hurt you now."

"Room six," he said, his expression revealing not a trace of fear or worry over the predicament. "But if you think this is over, you're severely–"

"I've heard enough." Dropping the dagger, she charged the bracelet and grabbed the back of his neck again, this time hitting him with enough of a charge to knock the Dekn Master out for at least a few hours. "Dear God of Beetles, I can still feel his hand on my– Where's Shanna?" she asked. "I don't trust a word out of his mouth, I need to be certain."

"Room six, I made sure. Get his keycard." After the brief moment it took for Moirah to get the keycard, and Uvall to switch off the cameras in the hallway and erase the footage from CR 10, the two of them left the room. "If he asks, I incapacitated you," Uvall said casually to Malistrade before heading to room six. Malistrade said nothing in return, but could be seen to smile a bit in pride, despite himself.

***

Gripping the sides of her cot and quietly crying, Shanna Averil looked like a completely different person than she was when Moirah last saw her. "...Aunt Moirah?" she asked weakly, looking up to see Moirah and Uvall enter the room.

Moirah stepped closer, expanding her shield to envelop the other woman and nullify her ability. "Yes, Shanna, it's me. I'm here," she whispered, helping her off of the cot. "I've got you, don't worry. We're going home now."

"Back to Ersis?" she asked, clinging to her rescuer for dear life.

"Back with me."

Moirah and Shanna Averil had both been through so much pain, so much sorrow, just to get to this point, but it was okay. They had each other now, they were a family again. And nothing could change that.

[exalok]

Prince!Daud AU, part 18 (repost)

After the marriage, Corvo had gone nearly a month with nothing but the lonely swinging of his sword to satisfy his need for movement. It hadn't hurt, per se – but even the Prince had noticed his discomfort eventually.

Six days at sea now. Before that, almost a week spent erring through the palace, silent and still in the company of the Prince. In all that time he had only touched the handle of his blade for comfort.

It shone in the afternoon light; tempered steel, flawless and fine on top the chest at the foot of the cot.

The maddening buzz, burned out of him in the fight with Daud, had burrowed back in, waves of tingling down his arms and the length of his neck. When he tried to rub it away, his skin sparked at the contact. He stared down at the sword. Indecision gnawed at him.

The Prince of Serkonos had great influence, even on the scale of the Isles; being tied to him, and most of all leaving Dunwall, had demanded the end of Corvo's role as Royal Protector. Normally, that would have meant leaving all of the attendant apparel behind: the coat for one, but also the sword. Jessamine had let him keep it. A parting gift for a friend, he'd thought, given his attachment to it after eleven long years.

Then he'd learned that the whole affair was a front for an entirely different sort of business, and the question of the sword was put out of his mind – though he'd assumed he would return to Dunwall, and to his function as Royal Protector, once it was over: the sword his again; once more at Jessamine's side.

That future was gone now. Jessamine was (his throat knotted, his breath suddenly short and his thoughts stuttering, but he swallowed past the gritting of his teeth and forced himself to finish:) dead, and Burrows was regent, and Emily wouldn't be of age for a Royal Protector for years, and would have someone of her own choosing besides.

Corvo reached down, drew the tips of his fingers down the length of the sword. It stung with cold.

He had only ever known the blade. His childhood had gone from aimless to hours spent honing his skill, copying the Grand Guard's drills, or what he could glimpse of them spying on the practice yard in Batista; and after the Blade Verbena there had been his commission, patrolling the streets, chasing after pirates, two years of soldiering before being sent to Dunwall and meeting his destiny.

Or what he had... believed was his destiny. There was no more Empress to protect.

And how long would the Prince keep him? How long until the threat came, and passed, and Corvo either succeeded or failed to keep the Prince from harm? What would he do then? He could return to Theodanis, he supposed. The prospect made him feel like a begging, tuck-tailed dog.

He drew back, his only understanding of the ache and the weight in his chest being exhaustion – too tired to swing around a useless blade – and as he straightened to his feet his gaze fell on the door to the cabin.

The Prince had still been around when Corvo woke some time before noon; sitting at the desk, sorting through the mess of work he had brought with him. He had glanced up when Corvo laboriously rose, swinging his heavy legs from the cot, face bleary, trying to focus despite the blinding brightness of the room – then the Prince had pushed at the bowl sitting by the edge of the desk, and had gone back to his task, the request clear.

Corvo hadn't moved for some time. He had watched the Prince work: the clench of his hand around the pen, the weary shifting of his posture as he compensated for the soreness of his back. Their fight the day before probably hadn't helped. His nose was still swollen, the blemish inexpertly covered up, but at least the bruising in his lip was nearly gone.

Then Corvo's stomach had made its existence known, and he had hauled his body to standing, and reached the desk at a slow shuffle. He hadn't bothered to look inside the bowl before shovelling it up. Whatever it was would do.

The Prince had fidgeted, eyes flicking up to him again, and Corvo had looked back.

Daud still looked tired. Those bags under his eyes – it reminded Corvo of the beginning, when he'd been able to tell the Prince was only pretending to sleep despite the late hour, probably unused to having someone lying so close, or even simply in his rooms while he rested. Still, Daud hadn't said anything, had only looked back to the document he'd been reading. Corvo had skirted the desk to peer at his work, hip bumping into Daud's arm as he came close. Daud had stiffened – sharp, a hitch in his shoulders – and glanced up again, uncertain. Corvo hadn't moved. Gradually, the tension had seeped from the Prince's bent nape – and there had been an answering nudge, tentative, of Daud's shoulder against Corvo's ribs.

Some time later the Prince had left. He hadn't come back yet; only Lee, dropping by to ask if he was hungry, his expression unguardedly wary. Maybe he had been the one to walk in on the end of their fight the day before.

Corvo looked at the door and the door seemed to stare back. He could leave. He could step outside – the Prince had asked him often enough. He could find where Daud had gone.

His palms prickled, clammy when he balled his hands into fists. He went to the window instead.

The open pane let in the brine; Corvo breathed it in like the salt might scour him clean, leaning as far out as he could go, the light stinging his eyes – something sharp prodded his elbow, and when he drew back in to look he found the books left lying on the windowsill. He flipped the top one open.

It took him a few seconds to recognize it: this was one of the biographies he had excavated from the library back at the palace, about Daud's grandfather. It had contained little of interest when he had first skimmed it, and combing back over what had been, overall, a somehow dry and bombastic text didn't appeal any more now. The other book was the script the Prince had been reviewing just before they left; his own official biography.

Corvo made a round of the cabin, picking up and inspecting what the Prince had left lying around. Most of them were more biographies, or histories of Karnaca – not all royal, since he also found some dealing with the Shindaerey Mines, and one on the subject of the isle of Morley. One book, strangely enough, was a collection of Karnacan myths, and leafing through it let him find a few he recognized from childhood.

He took that one with him, and returned to the windowsill and the unfinished biography, wedging himself in against the glass.

Within minutes he had dog-eared every corner of the first ten pages, and he was forced to cast it aside – the myths he had been intimately familiar with as a boy weren't enough to calm the jittering static-shock buzz inside him. He started pacing instead, tracking the switch from sun-hot to cool floorboards as he crossed the squares of light thrown through the window, thin and slanted now with the late hour.

The door swung open: Daud, two plates in his hands.

“There was an issue with the crew.”

“Lee told me,” Corvo cut in. Something about Dunwall's blockaded port, whether they'd be able to get through, and if not whether they'd be paid. Daud was the Prince; Corvo imagined he had ways around any blockage.

Daud grunted some kind of acknowledgement, and Corvo watched as he set up the desk like a makeshift dinner table, sweeping aside the paperwork, only to sit on the windowsill with his plate and fork, and motioned for Corvo to take the chair. He was settled exactly where Corvo had been, ten minutes ago: most of his body in the deep recess of the window, one leg hanging down, profile limned in deep dusk light.

In the momentary quiet, Corvo wondered whether Daud could feel the leftover warmth of his body, or if the sun had baked that away.

He took the chair. It was better than letting a thought like that run away with him.

Dinner was quiet. Corvo, lingering on Daud's loose shape backlit by the sun, mechanically put away the food. The Prince was almost reduced to silhouette: sprawled, indolent but for the slump of his usually studied lines, the only sign he was less relaxed than deeply exhausted. Corvo glanced down, to where the books he had put aside lay centimeters from the Prince's boot.

“Why did you only bring history on board?” he asked, and Daud's eyes flicked over, his eyebrows rising in question. Corvo motioned to the stack on the sill, and a wave of his hand indicated what had been scattered across the rest of the room. Daud's mouth pinched.

“I haven't seen you read anything else.”

Corvo coughed on his mouthful. Once he had gotten his breathing under control, he swallowed and gave the Prince a heavy, disbelieving look.

“I don't, in general,” he said, and some deeply ensconced part of him stirred at Daud's grimace. It felt a little like laughter. One might think the Prince had never met anyone who didn't read. Taking pity on Daud's clear consternation, he said: “Aside from swordwork and exercise, I don't do much to pass the time.”

“Nothing?” Daud asked, frowning and serious like this was a problem to solve.

Corvo shrugged. “Went sailing once or twice. Music, a little. There was a real Serkonan lute back at the Tower. Jess –”

His voice strangled around the shape of her name. His hands stilled where they hung, careful, the shaking minute, and he had to force his throat to open for his next breath. His grip was white-knuckled around his fork.

Daud had stilled, tight-faced and gaze fleeing, but his eyes strayed to Corvo's as Corvo took back control of his breathing. It was a strange sort of focus: unequivocally intense, a scorch of a look, but calming; a weapon aimed not at you, but at your enemy.

“... Did she listen to you play?” he finally asked, the plate mostly forgotten in his lap.

Corvo cleared his throat, tempered his high, shivering pitch. “– No,” he managed. “We played together.” Then, quieter: “She liked the harp.”

They finished their dinner in silence. Corvo retreated to his bed, huddled under the covers, and listened to the Prince doing the same in the background; the methodical sound of clothing being folded and put away; the final shuffling of a body as he settled down in sleep.

Corvo's heart still beat like a dancing drum inside his throat hours later. Not fast, not the rapid-fire rush of a fight, but deep and hard, the kind of sound that echoed in your eardrums. He lay there on the cot, thinking that if he put fingers to his neck he would feel the pulse – and as he lay there he knew, in this cold room, rocking with the motions of the wind-chopped ocean, that he would not sleep.

Night was almost like a body on top of him: pressure without heat, weight without the relief of touching. It made his own body feel unreal. An intangible shade under the covers. He looked to the ceiling as he tried to imagine himself elsewhere, free-floating instead of pinned, but the only picture his tired mind could conjure was the music room in Dunwall Tower, the gold carpet and the long piano, like an anchor in his heart.

Corvo shook himself out of it, his hands clenched in the sheets. He was sweating under the blanket.

He kicked it away first, let the cold air of the cabin seize him with a prickling of goosebumps, and got to his feet. Padding around the room to the window, his steps were as quiet as he could make them, but still he slowed to a crawl at every sign of movement from the hammock near the desk – sometimes the shifting of cloth, but mostly the creaking of the ropes around their tethering points. He reached the sill, and opened the book of myths, the embossed image of the Knocker on the cover distinct under his fingertips.

The moon wasn't full, but it and the stars, unclouded this night, gave off enough of a glow that he thought he might get through another story – but it took him long seconds to decipher the print in the low blue light, and by the end of a sentence he had entirely forgotten its beginning. Tiredness tugged at his eyelids. He knew, from experience, that it was a lure; that in ten more minutes, if he lay down on the cot, he would find himself wide awake and itching to move again.

His eyes strayed to the window, to the rocking ocean outside it. It was calm enough that there were no foam crests to the waves: only the undulation of dark water, silver-spined, like a million dreaming beasts might be carrying the whole ship on their backs. He reached out and was almost surprised to find cold clear glass instead of air.

Corvo slowly headed back to the cot – cold now, he thought, what heat it had taken from him sucked away – and stopped halfway, level with the hammock, to look down at the long line of the Prince's sleeping body. One arm was curled under his head; the other, fetched up tight against his chest. The fabric of the hammock curved around him like two cupping palms.

The Prince's eyes blinked open and flicked around, disoriented, before focusing on him.

“Corvo...?” His voice was raspy and soft.

There was a pause, in which the Prince blinked at him sleepily, stretching himself to some form of wakefulness. The cover slipped down to his waist. He wore a sleeping shirt, something simple and plain white gone blue in the light of the moon. It had ridden up enough for a sliver of paler skin to show between its hem and the waist of his pants.

“I don't read minds,” Daud said once the silence had gone on too long, his eyes closing, and it was said in such a deadpan tone that Corvo snorted, disarmed and half-smiling, suddenly real again. His fingers curled at the edge of the hammock.

“... Daud,” Corvo said, and the name sounded strange in his own mouth, like something you might say in a dream. He wasn't sure he'd ever said it before.

The Prince rose up on one elbow, squinting, his hair a mess of flyaway strands. Corvo's heart beat once, and he registered it as the dire, immediate need to reach out and touch. The knowledge lodged inside him like a knife slips between ribs.

“Does it fit two,” he rumbled, unfocused.

“Does what fit two?” Daud asked, a tired frown creasing his brow. Corvo looked down from the Prince's hair to the hammock, where his hand still rested. The frown remained until something in the Prince's expression cleared.

Daud met his gaze. All Corvo could see of his eyes was a splinter of blue-silver light in the dark.

“... I can make that happen,” Daud said, and though there had been no inflection to the words, they left him feeling a little warmer, the weight of sleep unwinding from its tight curl in his chest.

Daud had to brace the sides of the hammock with his feet for Corvo to climb in – the spread of his legs left Corvo shy-eyed and flushed, thankfully hidden in the dark of the night – but soon enough they were settled, lying down front to front, arms cramped awkwardly between them. Daud had taken the high ground, his chin level with Corvo's forehead, since his legs were just the right length for his knees to tuck up comfortably against Corvo's thighs instead of jabbing into the muscle.

“You're breathing on my neck,” Daud griped after three short minutes, and Corvo looked up to see the Prince grimacing in discomfort, twisting his head away like that would help.

“Breathing isn't negociable.”

Daud grunted, and his arm uncurled to grapple bafflingly with Corvo's biceps. Corvo took hold of his forearms to still him.

“What are you –”

“Stop fighting me,” Daud grumbled. “Just – Turn over –”

Corvo obeyed, rolling in place, and then Daud's knees were lining up to the backs of his thighs, and the Prince's stomach was a press of heat against his spine, and his huffing breath stirred the hair at the back of Corvo's neck. He stretched, just a bit, and Daud's hand grasped his side to stop him squirming.

His skin was so quiet. Where there had been a buzz of bloodflies he was an empty nest. No – water, a river maybe, his blood flowing smooth. So warm. His breath slowed so far it almost stopped.

He would have drifted to sleep in minutes like this, the thud of another heart against his shoulder blades, but Daud's fingers curled unthinkingly against his ribs, and he found himself tilting his head just enough to speak unobstructed by the covers:

“What?”

Daud stiffened to a standstill, which was as good as startling: he hadn't meant to be noticed. It only took him a moment, however, to recover his composure.

He started with, “Your daughter–” and had to stop when Corvo flung an elbow back trying to turn enough to look at him.

“My what?” With sleep almost holding him, nothing got through but confusion.

“Your– Emily?” Daud said, now confused too, the outline of his concern visible in the half light.

Corvo stared at him over the curve of his own shoulder. Emily, waiting and safe and so far away in Dunwall Tower. Emily, whose face he'd never even seen. The number of times he had wondered if she would have her mother's eyes.

“I love her,” he said, disturbingly honest, “but Emily's not mine.” Not in blood, at least, and no one would let him claim her with that chain missing.

Daud was silent a good long while. Then, “Oh,” he said, like the rest of what that implied had just hit him, and it belatedly reached Corvo, too, what Daud might have meant by it.

Corvo sighed, long and deep, sinking back into the warmth beneath the blanket. This was about the rumors. Not even Princes with spies in Dunwall were exempt from that particular trap.

“We weren't lovers,” he said plainly. I loved her. I was supposed to protect her. She was so, so important to me. “Only friends.” Only family.

For a moment there was only Daud's shallow breathing, like he was trying not to bother Corvo with the rise and fall of his ribcage – then his hand wormed up Corvo's back, his hot palm stroking the upper section of his spine, and he let himself push into it before sleep took him entire.

[illyriantremors]

To Call Thee Mine: A Feysand Fic

AN: This was originally written wayyyyyy back last Christmas as part of a fic exchange and I am only.... just now posting it. Whoops! I’m tidying up some things this week, so I figured I’d post this now before I forget.

Summary: Set after the war with Hybern has ended, Feyre and Rhys decide they’re already mates and High Lord & Lady, but now there is still just one ceremony left between them to do. With no better moment than after a victory in war during which they fought for one another, they decide to commit themselves to each other one last time and have the entire Inner Circle there to witness it. AKA it’s a wedding fic people.

AO3 Linkage

To Call Thee Mine

Only the Inner Circle is asked to come.

Well, the Inner Circle and her sisters, of course.

Elain could never have stayed away regardless. She has flowers to bring. Night blooming water lilies, jessamine, and moonflower are woven together into a bewitching arrangement of whites and magentas and midnight blues for Feyre to carry. She drove Lucien wild stitching it together all night.

It compliments the dress beautifully.

Feyre is in Morrigan’s dressing chamber, which she’s borrowed for the evening. She would have preferred to stay home and do it, but Morrigan insists a little tradition never hurt anyone. That and she wants to be there to see the stupid grin she knows will break free over her cousin’s face when he sees what she’s done to his mate. Sees her for the first time.

And oh how she has succeeded in her task like never before.

Morrigan has swept back the top of Feyre’s head in an elegant display of knots and twists that pull together behind her where the rest is allowed to fall loosely down her back in soft waves. There are small gems tucked here and there that Morrigan knows will catch the moonlight off the balcony when they go back to the House of Wind afterwards.

On her face, Feyre’s cheeks are a smooth pink blush - just the lightest touch of it to warm up her crystalline grey eyes. She convinces Mor of an equally soft shade of the color for her lips and the girls laugh as they joke about how long the color will last on those lips after the party is over later on that night.

But the dress - the dress is what will undo him. Of that both girls are sure.

It’s constructed much the same way her Starfall dress was. Slim fitting through the bust and waist before gently floating away from Feyre’s body so that all her curves are seen even if the long sleeves add a modest touch. And it drips in celestial shades of black and grey, sapphire and diamond, little hints of deepest purple fading in and out of the fabric until Feyre looks like the stars glimmering across the night sky as she walks, the dress turning her into the night itself.

This is the High Lady of the Night Court, they think as they look at her and Nesta hands her the silver crown to wear that will match Rhys’s and Elain presents her stunning bouquet and Morrigan pretends not to get weepy in the corner.

The temple is lit with vibrant torches and pits of warm fire that cast a soft glow over the room. The way the light plays out on Feyre’s dress as she turns is hard not to stare at. But then Rhys is there, brothers not far behind, and he doesn’t quite… know how to… handle her.

Across the room, the Inner Circle shares little looks as Rhys and Feyre stare at each other because they know. They know what this night means.

Rhys puts his hands in his pockets like he always does when he’s nervous. If he moves, he will cease to exist because one step closer to her and he’ll burn himself alive with the magic threatening to pour out of him just from the way her scent catches and lingers on his skin.

He thought finding her on Fire Night had been a gift from the Cauldron. He thought saving her in Amarantha’s despised court had been a blessing. He thought the day she claimed the Night Court as her home and him as her mate had been nothing short of a miracle.

But now? Now he understands that this woman is life incarnate, his perfect counter. This moment - it is destiny crafted from the heavens itself. It has to be. Because he’s looking at her like he can see every drop of blood she shed for him and she’s looking at him like she can feel every horror he endured and none of it matters because right now she is beautiful and he is her glory in darkness and there is no going back from this point. There is only them.

Only his violet eyes and her deep blonde hair and the flowers blooming in her hand that only reveal themselves under a dark, piercing night sky like the one the temple opens up to above them. Only the love that called to them both and never stopped working until they found their way to each other.

Mates.

And Rhys has never been more proud of Feyre and how far she has come.

Cassian smirks.

Morrigan beams.

Nesta stands tall and proud.

Elain folds herself into Lucien’s shoulder with the lightest sniffle that he tucks away for her.

And Azriel’s shadows sing the music of this night, dancing off into shadows to reach the furthest corners of the earth where Amren might hear it and whisper Good for you, boy.

The ceremony is kept simple. Traditional even. Rhys asked if it could be that way. There is enough of the Night Court’s pomp and circumstance and fae rituals to shroud them eternally between all of the details crowding around them within the temple’s circular walls.

He wanted to give Feyre a chance to have it her way, to honor the piece of her that remained human, the heart he heard beating in the forest while he was buried under a mountain of dirt and ash a million miles away.

And she agreed to it gladly. In some ways, mate was more than enough and never enough at all. Was it possible to ever have enough of him she wondered most often. As she steps towards him, takes in his tall, lean form clothed in darkness, his wings spread in a glorious ache that she longs to touch and fly and caress, she realizes that - no. She will never have enough of him. If the Cauldron granted her her mate in all his forms, her hunger would never abate, would never satiate and give way to a fullness her life has been void of for far too long. Just when Feyre thinks she has enough of him, he opens a new window into his soul for her to climb through and she sees more, more, more of this imperfect man who saved her.

And she wants to consume him all.

So in the temple, they join hands. They offer every little piece of themselves they have already given: enemies, partners, friends, lovers, mates and now, slipping the rings onto one another’s hands and saying the vows they’ve longed to make, the ones that kept them alive in the middle of death and bloodshed, they add a new depth to the bond - man and wife.

With each exchange, the fires burn a little brighter. The temple feels a little warmer. The smiles stretch a little wider. Velaris hums a little stronger.

And then he is kissing her, his wings sliding around her in slow motion so that all may see, but none may truly know what this is except him and her. And that bond between them - that wicked, sharp, sensuous thing - threatens to knock them all on their feet. Every last one of them feels the power flooding off of it in droves as Feyre pulls Rhys deeper into the kiss. They could drag the heavens through hell and out the other side without getting so much as one single dark blemish on its divinity with that kiss as Feyre takes him deeply.

Mate. My mate.

My friend.

Rhysand.

My husband.

Mine.

M - m - m - m…

Endless. It is endless between them.

The House of Wind above is silent, but the city knows. The city knows what their High Lord and Lady have done. And they celebrate it with wild enthusiasm.

Feyre hears it first. She would recognize that melody the city sends anywhere. How it sweeps through her, soaks into her skin like a kiss you can’t give back. How it soars to take the pains away and replace it with jubilant triumph.

Her hand flies to Rhys’s sitting at the table next to her and her fork drops. He hears it too. Feels it. Between them, a rush of memory flows down the bond like honey. What once was a nightmare of darkness in a prison cell is now Feyre’s first taste of freedom. The first night she felt connected to her mate even if she didn’t quite know it yet.

She will never forget that music. It has been a ghost haunting her for ages and she will never wish it away. That music saved her. The music bound her. That music brought her up, up, up to the rich splendor of night where Rhysand called home and it is hers now.

Tenderness. A soothing caress. And unyielding love. The bond thrums with it as Rhys pulls Feyre up from the table, no questions asked, and pulls her into a dance. Piece by piece, the rest of the world melts away.

Rhys holds Feyre’s hand against his chest while they slowly turn and from the table, Morrigan sits with that devilish gleam in her eye remembering how her cousin first toppled into her room in a broken mess proclaiming her his mate and wondering by the Mother how she could ever understand the depth of his love for her - for this woman cradled against him now more precious than the rubies of the earth or the life waters of the sea - and now look at him. Morrigan wants the whole world to look at him and his mate and know as she does what this moment is.

Her magic unravels the sleeves. They don’t see it. Not at first. Their eyes are either shut entirely as they lose sense of the world or they’re too glued on each other while Rhys counts his mate’s freckles and Feyre focuses on the citrus rolling off his chest, inhaling deeply into his tunic. One stitch at a time, her sleeves disappear until her arms are bare save for those magnificent, inky blue tattoos swirling over her skin that name her his equal. The ink glides down to her fingertips to connect with Rhys and at his kiss, the bond connecting them travels across her hand to his and his tunic too is rolled back so that his tattoos are exposed, a perfect match.

Morrigan sighs happily, relaxing into her chair. She could watch them for a very long time she decides.

Cassian quips that if she isn’t careful, her face will soon be fixed in a permanently dopey gesture and then no one will want to dance with her at Rita’s anymore. A shower of spiced rice cascades over his face and by the time Nesta has wiped it off of him, neither is sure if it is Morrigan’s magic or Azriel’s shadows that moved faster. Elain’s endearing snort is a sound that has them all loosening into peals of laughter as she snuggles into Lucien. She may as well have not taken her own chair at this dinner table.

A pleasant chatter consumes the evening and they all pretend not to notice the moment Rhys and Feyre disappear off the balcony and out of sight altogether, two stars dancing on air through the clouds and mist of darkness they bring together towards home.

Towards each other.

The High Lord and Lady of the Night.

[ckyking]

witchsong

just finished my second playthrough of dishonored 2 (royal bodyguard ftw) and finally decided to write something for this fandom years after playing dishonored in the first place. so, witch!corvo and some attano feels for everyone~ i hope you enjoy!

You are a man full of secrets, most of which not even Jessamine was aware of before her assassination. Now, however, with her heart beating in a perfect counterpoint to yours on the right side of your chest, caught halfway between Void and the barely more tangible fabric of your world, you are certain that she knows them, just as well as the ones she gleans from the mists and whispers back into your ears.

Still, Emily is not her mother, is not her father, and can no more hear the Void than she can stop herself from stealing away in the dead of night, jumping from rooftop to rooftop as she lays down the burden of ruling for a while, grasping at the freedom the sea and the stars taunts her with.

She is very much like the aunt she has never known – will never know – in that way.

If you are a tree, roots digging deep and anchoring you wherever you go, branches grasping at the sky and lulled to sleep only by the come-and-go of the waves, Beatrici is a leaf, dancing away in the wind, footprints as light as a feather as her wants and needs circle and circle, their only constant the tug of her veins pulling her away, away, away.

But Emily always, always come back, and this is all Jessamine, lovely Jessamine with jewels falling from her lips, as bright as the blood that stained them, bright Jessamine who turned courtesies into blades to keep her Empire safe. If she knew anything in this world, it was duty, and your daughter bears it in her bones just like her mother and her mother’s father and all the ones that came before him.

Emily bears the weight of her mother’s line proudly, and you are glad that your blood – your father’s blood – is still and quiet in her veins.

As the Duke of Serkonos approaches, Luca Abele who is not even a tenth of the man who came before him, you wonder if you did not speak too soon, if this is not your homeland calling and calling for the daughter it has never known, just like it calls for you and your sister and all the ones whose blood churns in their veins like the Ocean crashing against the Jewel of the South’s coast.

All of those idle thoughts desert you as the woman the Duke had brought before the throne steps out of her litter, clad in black and red and blood, so much blood, blooming from her shoulders and neck like the roses whose scent hangs heavy in the air, sweet and cloying.

Witch, something whispers in the back of your mind, and your left hand, your marked hand curls as you step in front of Emily, Void seeping slowly into your chest as she talks of sisters and throne and rightful place.

I knew her once, but no more. Vines crawling through dead flesh, steel scraping against bone, wit sharp enough to cut the world and paint dripping from a discarded brush. Delilah.

Delilah—Delilah became a witch, you know for sure; clawed her way out of the grime and despair with broken nails and a silver tongue, played men and women alike until the Outsider gave her another instrument to pluck the strings of, magic which sang sweetly under her hands, tempting and ripe with possibilities.

But you, with your deft hands and sharp teeth and dark, dark eyes—witch eyes, your mother used to say as she cleaned yours and your sister’s wounds, you were born into this, born for this.

Delilah is not her sister, whose heart beats with yours; is not her niece whose veins sing low and sweet the songs of the sea and the trees. She cannot even begin to guess at the secrets you hide, but oh, is she going to learn.

Before you became the Royal Protector, you were Corvo: void-touched Corvo, quick-hands Corvo, alley-cat Corvo. And always, always were you half of corvoandbeatrici, your sister and you rulers of your own little world as you prowled in ever-widening circles around the place you called home, with your soft mother and your stoic father who loved you so, so much.

Witch-children, they used to call the both of you; an insult, a talisman held against the darkness reflected in your child-eyes, night-dark for you and witch-green for her. But you adopted it as your very own badge of honour, the two of you who lived and breathed by the tides, whose mother had to fetch you from the shore as you watched the great leviathans emerge before sinking back into the depths, the sea a great oil spill where the stars came to die. Your poor mother, who gave birth to changelings, half-here and half-there, too sharp and too angry and too much.

But the thing is, she loved you, your gentle mother, just like she loved your father, who towers over you in all of your memories, this giant with dark eyes and a constantly furrowed brow, with rough hands but a gentle touch. The man who carried you in his arms and your sister on his back as easy as breathing; who held you tight to his chest as if to take you back into his body, where you would be safe and protected from the world who cursed your existence before you were even born. The man who smiled only for the three of you, his lips cracking his marble facade slowly, almost painfully; this man for whom happiness hurt more than sadness. But he did it, for you.

You remember his large hands carefully holding yours as he taught you the ways of the earth, tending to hellebore and wolfsbane and bloodswort in the little garden you kept at the edge of the forest, far from prying eyes and from the Abbey who would brand you as heretics before burning you on the pyre of their convictions.

You learned how to carve bones and make them sing for you, silvery and bright; how to blacken them with hellebore when a simple charm is not enough; how and when to encourage growth, and when to salt the earth and try another time. All of those lessons you held close to your chest, especially in Dunwall where great beasts of steel and steam rose; especially after his death, as bright and shocking as the stars going out. Until they told you that the very trees he loved killed him, you refused to believe it, and you hated him for it, for leaving the three of you alone. He had seemed immortal, back then, as much a constant as the sky or the sea, a guiding hand in the darkness.

But you know that the things he could do – the things he taught you – have a price, and you will choose to believe that this was it, that this what was expected of him, and not a simple death, a stupid death which could have been averted with a little more luck, which you know how to weave from nothingness and carve into being if you so wish. You would have done so in a second, in a heartbeat—if you had known.

(You buried the what-if with the rest of your regrets, down, down into the void where Jessamine lives and dies and lives again, where your mother dies out of heartbreak over losing you and your sister one after the other)

And it is even worse when you remember that he was a healer, your father, for those like you who did not have the means to see a real doctor. But he had died too quickly for even his knowledge to help.

Broken bones, illnesses, pregnancies, you had seen all of this and more before you were even nine of age, curled with your sister in one of the corners of the room your father treated his patients in; a sink, an old table, two rickety chairs and shelves full of jars the only things contained within. The cushion you and Beatrici observed all of the comings and goings from with curious cat eyes – predator eyes, you would hear muttered under the visitors’ breaths – you stole from a noble, Beatrici’s first foray into overt magic as she unlocked the windows with a glance before slithering inside and coming out just as quick, prize held awkwardly to her chest. The thrill of it sustained you all the way home as you ran and laughed, high on your success and the magic that swam in your blood, as comforting as the deep thrums of your father’s chest as he sang you to sleep, your very own whale-song to tempt you down into the deep.

A life for a life, she had whispered against your cheek when a child was born only for the mother to die, exhausted and bloody from carving herself out to shape a new life with her own hands and bring it forth into the world. She always understood those things faster than you, your sister, born kicking and screaming years before you. But it’s alright, because you were different, and completed each other. Your were the calm to her storm, the ice to her fire.

Because your sister was even angrier than you, at times, and she knew how to use it, how to stoke the fires and sharpen it into a blaze hot enough to melt everything in its path. She did so only once in front of you, when men took a liking to your tan skin and wide eyes and promised to take the both of you to Dunwall, where you would be loved more than you were in the south, where your very blood sang for you to be. Love tasted of dirty hands and greedy hearts when they spoke of it, and Beatrici burned. Fire leapt from her fingers, from the cigarettes clenched between their teeth and from the lanterns sitting around them, and they burned with her, those screaming men who would have broken you before throwing you overboard, Dunwall nothing but a distant dream to the very end.

Her scorching hot hand in yours; the wildness of her gaze as she tugged you away and ran; the breeze teasingly pulling at your hair even as it fed the fire burning white behind the two of you; your shadows like giants stepped out of a tale, dancing and flickering against the wall of a crumbling alley. You keep all of this close even as Delilah steals the Mark from you, untangling you from the Outsider’s gift before casting both aside.

But doesn’t she know, you can take the boy from the sea, but not the sea from the boy.

Your hands, your eyes, your heart; a witch, through and through. Oh, my love, you were always more than you appeared. Delilah is just as blind as I was, once upon a time.

Ramsey’s greed presses against your chest, and Emily’s anger, icy and slow-moving, a great monster awakened from its slumber, straightens your spine even as the cold metal of a pistol comes to rest under your chin, forcing you to tilt your head up.

A life for a life, you think as you breath and reach, pushing past the City Watch Officer’s pleasure at seeing you at his mercy – or so he thinks – to coil your will around his. Without the Mark to aid you, the Void buckles under your command, tries to drag you under and make you a vessel for its will until you are consumed by madness, but you hold fast, left hand clenched even if no tattoo flares to life at the gesture.

Your father’s whale-song wells up in your breast, and the scent of growing things fills your nose, just like it did for years and years before you left the only home you had known.

Like this, Ramsey’s will breaks against yours, and it’s easy to sneak a tendril of Void, your Void, where trees mingle with broken shelves and frozen fires, under Delilah’s notice, to wrap it almost tenderly around the guards’ neck, around the Duke’s, to twine it around the thorny twists of Delilah’s not-quite-flesh, your fingers curling against your palm with each new life in your hands. And then, finally, you wrap it around your own neck, where it nestles lovingly against your throat, pooling around the muzzle of the gun still held to your head.

You smile at Delilah when she realizes what you have done, and her hand reaches fruitlessly for you even as you force Ramsey to pull the trigger.

Emily’s horrified scream joins the one she let out when she was taken, fifteen years prior, but you don’t quite hear it. No, your past flickers before you, and Jessamine’s heart beats in your chest, and the Outsider’s gaze is heavy on your back. The Void grazes your tongue and fills your mouth, grows in spikes and spirals of obsidian from your chin and spreads until it covers your entire face, a not-quite-living reminder of the mask you have not worn since the Rat Plague took over Dunwall and Pietro-that-is-not made it for you; as a gift, as an offering.

Lead tastes like your regrets, and your sister’s fire and your daughter’s rage.

(Your head explodes in a thousand of black shards, and the ones whose fates you shackled to yours fall around like dominoes, one after the other. Off with their heads, little Emily in white whispers from the space between dreams, before she wakes up, Callista’s admonishments loud in her ears)

And then you are back, whole and healthy and gloriously angry, the Void swimming around you before twisting back into itself, the world narrowing into a single point where time and space do not matter anymore before righting itself abruptly, leaving Emily to look bewilderedly at the fallen men and women at your feet, at your smiling face.

You know it’s not enough to keep Delilah down for long, not with her spirit parted from its cage of flesh, but you have won time, and time is all that you need to scoop up your sword and tug Emily by the hand, to run away from the throne room where dirty hands and greedy hearts reach for you, and toward the sea, toward the home that calls back to you.

Perhaps it is time for Emily to learn as well, those lessons that have not failed you once in your long and tiring life; the earth and the sea and the stars, the blood that courses through her veins and reaches for the Ocean.

Serkonos calls, and you finally answer.

[matredaen]

heliotropism

dishonored; 3.2k

heliotropism: (noun) the tendency of an animal to move toward light

Or: the unmaking of Corvo Attano

feat. corvo attano/jessamine kaldwin, possibly graphic depictions of violence (being a discussion of the happenings in coldridge prison), canonical character death, and non-linear, flash-edited storytelling

thanks for reading, folks x

It starts like this:

Someone kills the Empress.

;

It is dark in the cell and cold, cold, bitterly cold; except for where his jaw aches from the interrogator's blow. Except for where hot iron was held to his forearms, to the skin over his heart. He drifts and he keels like an old ship through fog. The voices echo. The iron burns, and the iron burns, and he has not stopped screaming since they brought him here ages and ages and ages ago.

“Confess,” Burrows says, standing in front of him, immaculate and regal and cold, cold, cold. The word falls like a coin from his lips. “Confess, Corvo.”

Like a favor, from his lips. Corvo drags in a ragged breath (cold, cold) bares his teeth, and Burrows sighs. Flicks a hand.

They start again.

;

It starts like -

;

Someone kills the empress

;

And -

;

“And just what are you supposed to be?”

He has his papers, in the inner pocket of his coat - and there are copies in the hands of the Serkonan ambassador standing waspish and noble a pace in front of him. The captain isn’t looking at the ambassador, though: his watery grey eyes are fixed on Corvo. Same color as the sky outside. Flat and liquid. The air here is cold, even in the grand entry hall of Dunwall Tower.

The ambassador clears his throat, and answers the captain. “The details are stipulated herein,” he says, his accent trained and clipped. He holds out one of the letters bearing Duke Theodanis Abele’s seal to the captain, “That is for your perusal. The other is for His Imperial Highness the Emperor’s. Captain Attano is at his disposal, and yours as well, by order of the Duke of Serkonos. He is the finest swordsman Karnaca has to offer.”

“A gift,” the captain says, his voice dragging long and skeptical on the word.

“A gesture of goodwill,” the ambassador says, voice like an oilslick. The letter remains in his outstretched hand, unwavering.

The captain’s upper lip twists in a slight grimace. Corvo’s gaze does not waver from his. After a beat of silence he takes the letter and breaks the wax seal, unfolding the paper trimly, eyes flicking quickly over the contents. His grimace deepens, and he sighs.

“Well.” he says, refolding the letter and tucking it into the breast pocket of his uniform. He smooths the jacket out and sniffs, gazing hawkish down his nose. His voice echoes through the hall. “I suppose everything looks to be in order. We’ll not want to be keeping you from the Emperor’s audience any longer, Lord Ambassador Benneton. If you’ll come with me; I’ll have it seen to that Mister Attano is settled in the barracks.”

The ambassador offers a smile, a well oiled and sharp thing. “Delightful,” he says, and turns to Corvo. “Best of luck to you.”

Corvo inclines his head. The marble floors of the hall are polished to such a keen shine that he can see himself and the captain and the ambassador in them, fleeting shadows. Someone is playing music, deep in the tower.

He is led away.

;

But, no, no, even before that:

Corvo paces the perimeter of the arena, banners and flowers and music and summertime heat all around him. He is sixteen years old, and his opponent is twice his size.

His mother is watching from the stands, her hand over her heart.

Corvo’s lip is bleeding. He has bested three men already. He paces, back to the wall, watching his opponent do the same. The drums pick up.

There is the blade in his hands and it sings, it sings

;

It starts like this:

“It is an honor to meet Your Royal Highness,” he says, his voice low. He bows, eyes averted out of deference, his hand resting over his heart and his other held behind his back. The Crown Princess’ shoes come into his field of view. He does not rise - as is courteous. “I am humbled by your presence.”

“My Lord Protector,” says the Crown Princess - and there is instant clamor in the room.

He looks up, cannot help it, shock like cold water rushing down his spine, Lord Protector -

She smiles, glittering and Imperial, ignoring the murmurs tearing through the room, “The honor is mine.”

;

They start again.

Corvo has seen men flogged before. He is no stranger to the theory - in practice -

They chain his hands, and hang him from a hook on the ceiling. And then - they whip him. When his knees give out (and they do, they do, they do) he drops like a stone, and the bindings cut into his wrists. He swings, and his forearms grow slick with the blood, his mind blank with the hurt of it.

Burrows raises a hand. The interrogator stops, gives him a moment to swing and stumble. His feet slip in the damp underneath him, and he falls again, the short drop yanking hard on his shoulders. He bites down hard on a groan, and forces his lolling head upright. Forces his rolling gaze steady long enough to meet Burrows’ steady stare.

He is immaculate. He opens his mouth to speak - to ask him to confess -

“Damn you,” says Corvo, half-choked and gargled - must have bit his tongue, at some point, the blood dribbles out, and he laughs, high and frantic, “Fuck you, fuck you-“

;

The interrogator trades the whip for a pipe. Corvo screams.

Burrows’ gaze is clinical, cold, when he says, “Break his jaw.”

;

Before all of this, there is the Empress.

;

She pauses halfway through a chord, fingers resting light on the keys. The aborted notes hang in the air, high and sweet, low and mournful, and the candlelight catches on the polished surface of the piano, glimmering. The tune had been halfway familiar. It has been three days since the Crown Princess named him her Lord Protector in front of a crowd of witnesses, and this is the first time that he has been in a room alone with her, at her request.

She turns her head partway toward him, standing silent and a step to the left of the closed door. Retracts her fingers from the keys and folds her hands delicately in her lap.

She says, “So, you are my Lord Protector, then.”

He swallows. “By your will,” he says. He still does not know what prompted her to choose him. He does not know if he ever will. He catches the barest hint of a smile lifting at the corner of her lips before her face turns away from him once more.

“My father disapproves of my choice,” she says, as casually as if she is discussing a turn of the weather. Corvo’s heart turns to stone - surely, if he has attracted the Emperor’s disapproval without having even met him (and that stings somewhat, it does - he still has the Duke’s sealed papers tucked into the bottom of his trunk in the barracks, cast aside for this last year) then - but the Crown Princess laughs, and she is still speaking, “But it is good, then, that it is my choice. I’ve heard that you were Karnaca’s finest swordsman?”

He swallows again, shifts his weight from one foot to another. He is - unsure how to respond. what to do with her laughter, with the information she has relayed. How to conduct himself in her presence. He knows - enough - about the function of Royal Protectors (histories gleaned through frantic reading into the late hours of the past three evenings) to know that they are not meant to be friends. He clears his throat, finally, says, “That is what they told me.”

She laughs again, and it unsettles something inside his ribcage, a swooping kind of sensation that makes him feel off-balanced, near sea-sick. “So modest,” she says, and raises her hands to the piano once more. Her fingers settle over the keys, and begin plucking melody once more, “Thank you for meeting with me tonight, Lord Attano.”

The dismissal is clear enough. Corvo bows, even though she cannot see it, and murmurs a hasty, “Goodnight, your Grace,” through the tightening vise around his throat. the off-balanced feeling remains heavy on his shoulders. She plays her music, and it follows him even after he closes the door behind him.

;

Before all of this, all of this:

There is Jessamine, Jessamine, Jessamine

;

Burrows breaks his jaw. He doesn’t eat for a week.

;

Jessamine reaches out for him. She takes his hand in her own and she kisses the scars over his knuckles and his heart aches, his heart aches. Sunlight lancing through the window adds gold to her hair. She is beautiful and unreal, eyes like cool water, steady. She is perfect, and he -

“I love you,” he tells her. She smiles, and his heart aches with it. He loves her, he loves her, down to his marrow, he loves her. She smiles, and he reaches up to brush her hair behind the shell of her ear.

“My love,” she says.

;

Corvo is drowning.

There is water in his lungs. The interrogator lets him back up for air, and it tears in his chest. There is not enough, and there is too much, and Corvo is drowning. He can taste iron in the back of his throat. Burrows watches him twitch, bent double on the stone floor, water and blood sliding from his throat in equal measure.

Jessamine is standing there, a step behind Burrows - no, it must be her portrait - only - Jessamine never wore her hair down for any portrait, nor did any artist commissioned paint her so sad-looking. The image of her wavers. Her mouth is moving, she is saying something - only

No, it is Burrows speaking. He asks, “Why did you kill the Empress?”

And Jessamine is speaking too, she asks, “My love, my love, why is this happening?”

Corvo presses his face into the stone, and shakes. He addresses them both, his words quiet and mangled by his torn throat, the water, his ill-healing jaw. He says, “I didn’t,” and “I don’t know, Jessamine, Jessamine-”

The interrogator takes him by the shoulder, a rough hand at the back of his skull, and pushes him back under.

;

And

;

Jessamine kisses him and steals the breath from his lungs and he is a fool, he is a fool, but he kisses her back in the empty ballroom and he tangles his fingers in her hair and he kisses her and he kisses her and she tastes like brandy and like honey and he is a fool, but this is one thing that he will not, that he cannot regret.

And this, this, this - there is only Jessamine. There has only ever been Jessamine.

;

There is Jessamine, and then -

The child is the smallest, most perfect little creature he has ever seen.  He sits cautiously in the chair at Jessamine’s bedside, staring in wonder at the baby swaddled in her arms. Jessamine’s hair is down, spread ungracefully over her shoulders, and she looks up to smile tiredly at him. She shifts, cautious of the child, to bring herself closer to him.

The child’s eyes are closed. A shock of wispy, curling dark hair peeks out from beneath the blanket. The perfect rosebud mouth opens, stretches into a wide yawn.

“Her name is Emily,” Jessamine says. Corvo presses his hand against his mouth, reaches out to brush the child’s - Emily’s, his daughter’s - tiny cheek with his thumb.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, voice quiet and wavering. He knows his eyes are wet when he looks up to meet Jessamine’s gaze. He laughs, smiles openly, unashamedly. “She looks like you.”

“Corvo,” Jessamine says, fondly, softly, “She looks like you.”

;

The gulls cry out.

It is a cold day, a stiff breeze blowing in from the harbor.

Dunwall Tower rises high above the dark waters of the Wrenhaven.

Someone kills the Empress.

;

“You can’t be serious,” he says.

Jessamine shakes her head. “Please don’t argue with me on this matter,” she says, rubbing tiredly at her temple.

Corvo’s hands feel restless at his sides. Clenched into fists. Jessamine won’t look at him. “Jessamine, please,” he begs, “I’m your Protector. Send someone else.”

“There is no one else I trust,” she says.

“I don’t care,” he snaps, “I won’t leave you. Please, please, don’t make me.”

She is silent.

“Jessamine,” he says. Watches her inhale sharply, swirl the whiskey at the bottom of her glass.

“Your ship leaves in the morning,” she says, finally, “You should say goodbye to Emily tonight, before you go.”

Corvo closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. “As you wish, your Grace,” he says, smoothing the hurt from his voice. He bows sharply, departs before she can say anything else - the last he sees before the door to her study swings shut is her staring hard at the surface of her desk.

;

“Where is Lady Emily?” Burrows asks, “Where have you hidden her away?”

“I haven’t,” Corvo says. Burrows waves a hand, and the hammer is brought down on his pinky finger. He screams, and Burrows waits for him to stop before he speaks again.

“You are making this more difficult for yourself, Corvo,” he says, “We will pry the truth from you eventually. Why did you kill the Empress?”

“I didn’t,” Corvo says, desperation rising in his throat. He sees the interrogator raise the hammer again and he flinches away as much as he is able to in the chair, his heart pounding like a fearful wild thing in his chest. The hammer comes down. Corvo screams again.

“She trusted you. Why did you betray her?” a note of irritation has crept into Burrows’ tone, Corvo marvels through the haze of delirium. The interrogator sets the hammer down, works on pulling Corvo’s fingers back into a semblance of correct anatomy - this is no kindness, no thought for treatment, and he’ll never hold a sword in his left hand again, he thinks, gritting his teeth and groaning through the process. The interrogator twists his ring finger and he hears something snap. Shards of bone grinding against each other. “Corvo. What possessed you to betray her?”

“I didn’t,” Corvo gasps, cringing away from the ruin of his left hand, his whole body straining against the chair, “I didn’t, I didn’t-”

“You killed her-” Burrows snaps, his voice rising in accusation, and Corvo could weep.

“I couldn’t,” he screams, jerking against his bonds. There is something warm and damp on his cheeks, and his vision swims and oh, oh - he is weeping, “I couldn’t have, I couldn’t have - I would have sooner torn out my own throat can’t you fucking see that, I would have sooner died-”

“Shut your damned mouth,” Burrows shouts, and Corvo falls silent for the shock of it.

Watches him raise a shaking hand to turn off the audiograph machine on his desk. “Leave us,” he says to the interrogator, who dips into a bow and then does, the door clicking shut behind him. Corvo’s ruined hand aches. His throat feels raw. Burrows is shaking, his skin blotched red and pale with - frustration? rage?

Jessamine stands behind him. Her hair is down, and her feet are bare. She has been weeping. Corvo tries to reach out for her, is stopped by the manacles.

He swallows. When he speaks, his voice sounds very small. “I couldn’t have,” Corvo says, “I - don’t you see? I loved her - I loved her. I couldn’t have.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Burrows says without looking at him, his hands clenched tight at the end of his desk. Behind him, Jessamine tilts her head, her mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line. Corvo cannot breathe. He can’t look away from her.

“I loved her,” Corvo says again, swallowing hard, stumbling over himself, “Please, I loved her, and Emily is - if, if you don’t believe me there were - there were - we wrote letters - she kept all of, she told me she kept all of them-”

“I know,” Burrows says, and Corvo’s breath catches in his throat, “I burned them.”

The pain in his hand is throbbing up his entire arm. It makes it hard to think - for a moment Corvo is unsure if he heard Burrows correctly.

“You,” he starts, “No, why would you - did you read them?”

“Yes,” Burrows says.

“And - you burned them?” he asks. Horror and grief swells in him like a terrible wave.

“Yes,” Burrows says. He still hasn’t looked up.

“Why,” Corvo gasps, jerking hard at his manacles, mindless of the agony it sends burning through his left arm, “You read them, you read them and you burned them - you know I didn’t kill her-” how could he have? She was everything - his sun and moon, the stars and all the seas beneath - everything -

“I know,” Burrows agrees simply. He sounds - weary.

“I’m no liar,” Corvo snarls.

“What you are,” Burrows says, “Is a damned fool.”

“I didn’t kill her!-”

“I know!” Burrows snaps. He slaps his hand against the desk, hard, “You fucking fool, I know -”

He visibly bites back his words and falls silent. Jessamine’s ghost tilts her head again, presses her hand against her chest, where the blade had gone in. Understanding dawns on Corvo like cold, cold water trickling down his spine.

“The assassin,” Corvo whispers, his eyes wide. Burrows flinches. “You hired him.”

He says nothing.

“You know where Emily is,” Corvo says, “Don’t you.”

His mouth twists into a grimace. That is answer enough.

He would scream if he had the breath. He feels as though he is sinking in deep water. “I’ll kill you,” he promises.

;

It goes like -

;

It is a fair wind that brings you home to me

;

Corvo cannot remember the man’s face - only the red of his coat, and the red on his blade. Emily had been screaming, and Jessamine had been screaming, and he would have been too if only he had the breath for it - and then the only sound had been the gulls crying, and Jessamine gasping, scrabbling at her chest, at the marble floor.

There is only Jessamine, Jessamine, Jessamine -

He drags himself to her, finds his breath sticking in his chest like he’d been dealt the blow - not -

Her blood leaks through his fingers. A tiny, terrible noise tears from her throat when he presses down - the wound is bad, but if he can just keep the pressure on it until - until -

“Corvo,” she gasps, fear bright in her shining eyes, “It’s all - falling apart.”

“It’s okay,” he says, pulling her closer, running his shaking free hand over her hair, numbness creeping up through his chest - he should have - it should be him - “It’s okay, shh, I’m here.”

“Corvo-” she says, reaching blindly for his hand, “Corvo?”

And then -

;

It starts with this:

“Leave us,” Jessamine says to her attendants, early morning light shining through the panes of her room’s windows, bright and clear. Her hair is down and she is still in her nightgown. She smiles softly at Corvo, and when the last maid clears from the room and the door shuts firmly behind her she boldly steps forward until there is hardly a breath of space between them.

“Good morning, your Grace,” he says.

He had kissed her the night before - he is unsure of how to conduct himself now. He settles on reaching for her hand, ghosting a gentle kiss over her knuckles. It is a good choice; she laughs, tightening her hold on his hand.

“You can call me by my name, Corvo,” she softly, reaching up to cup his cheek, “I would like it if you did.”

//

a.n.

okay, well. im not entirely happy with this but ive been working on it since the beginning of march and its done now, okay, its done. have it

[thesffcorner]

Dishonored Retrospective Part 7: Sequel Changes and Strengths

Part 6 was the end of our look at the first game, finishing with the second of the the two expansions, the Brigmore Witches. In this part we will look at the changes the sequel brought to the world-building, characters, game-play and overall story. 

Dishonored 2 came out fall 2017 and it’s hands down the most beautiful game I’ve played. While I go back and forth of whether I like Death of the Outsider more, this is still a fantastic sequel that improves on nearly everything (except maybe the frame rate) of its predecessor and it feels like the developers finally hit their stride both in terms of story and mechanics.

When the game came out a lot of the popular jokes and comments online were that it’s just a gender swapped repeat of the first game. While I do find the joke funny and can see where people get this idea from, the only real repeated element from the first game is Emily losing the throne and fighting to get it back. Story-wise, the game has a lot more in common with the DLC, than anything that happened in the first game.

For starters, the main villain is Delilah, the villain from the DLC and her role and character get greatly expanded upon. Second, while Daud isn’t present in the game, the fallout of his actions influence the proceedings here much more than anything Corvo does in the first game.

And finally the story itself is again, more of a mystery than a revenge plot. Yes Emily does want to rescue Corvo and defeat Delilah, but the bulk of the game focuses on uncovering who and what Delilah is and how she got in a position to take over Dunwall.

Story and Gameplay Changes:

Dishonored 2 is again, a first person action-stealth game and this time you have the choice between playing as Corvo or Emily. Based on who you chose to play as, you get a different move-set and some different dialogue and cut-scenes. I played as Emily twice and will be subscribing to the developers’ statements that they intended for the story to be from Emily’s POV.

It’s been 15 years since Jessamine’s assassination and in her honor, Emily is launching a new ship. At the ceremony, Duke Luka Abelle of Serkonos arrives with an army of Clockwork soldiers and a gift; Delilah herself. She easily dispatches of the guards and Corvo himself and declares herself Empress as the second daughter to the old Kaldwin Emperor. Emily is trapped in her study by one of Delilah’s helpers, Ramsey and the game starts.

The first thing to note is that unlike the first game, there is no tutorial level like Coldrige. Once the game starts, it starts for real, and everything you do, affects your chaos level and the rest of the plot. This really threw me for a loop, especially since at this point, Emily doesn’t have her powers yet. Because of this, the first level A Long Day In Dunwall is probably one of the most difficult ones in the whole game.

Another change that definitely informs the way you play is that in this game you can refuse the Outsider’s gifts, which is essentially an expansion on a challenge run you could do in the original game, where Corvo only used the Blink and Void Gaze abilities.

From a gameplay standpoint I really like this change; it’s quite the challenge to beat the game without powers and the fact that now the developers have to account for people choosing to play this way, meaning the developers made a  conscious choice to make the levels traversable for non-powered players, and to compensate for this the core gameplay is much more difficult.

From a story standpoint, this decision makes no sense though, especially if you play as Emily. At least Corvo knows who the Outsider is and what those powers mean, but Emily has no idea. Why would she refuse something that would make it easier for her to beat Delilah?

On a side note I feel like both Corvo and Emily’s reaction upon meeting the Outsider is a bit too mellow. Personally if a demigod yanked me into the abyss and showed me a very staged rendition of all the horrible events of my life that lead me to this point and then told me I was special I would smack him. Bless Billie for at least reacting appropriately.

In the first game, avoiding guards was a joke. You could easily escape if they were alerted, you could slam things, open doors, or break windows, and they wouldn’t react. Here if you open a door or if you take out a guard who was talking to someone, the others will notice and will investigate. What’s more is they will investigate the most obvious hiding place which is a real trip if you are used to the first game’s gameplay where the guard could be looking right at you and not notice you were there.

Likewise, their patrolling routes are better designed, and there are more groups where it’s not so easy to split them apart or take them out one by one without the others noticing.

Another thing that makes the game more difficult and immensely more entertaining is the number of civilians. Dunwall in the first game and DLC felt like a real city but because of the plague and curfew (and let’s be real the technical limitations of the engine Arkane used) there are near to no people on the streets that aren’t hostiles. The only level in the base game that has them at all is Lady Boyle’s Last Party, save for a small group in the Golden Cat and the Flooded District Sewers.

Here, Karnaca is brimming with life. There are civilians everywhere; you can interact with them, hit them, rob them, or simply observe them. They will panic and alert guards if you are hostile to them or someone else in front of them or if you trespass into their apartments and shops..

Even the two levels in Dunwall feel so much better when you can find people on the streets who comment on the proceedings or just simply exist without you. I genuinely can’t describe to you how much I love this change, and it’s something I sorely missed even in the DLC.

Worldbuilding:

Dishonored 2 is set both in Dunwall and a completely new location: Karnaca, the capital of the southern Isle of Serkonos. It’s a city inspired by Havana and the Spanish coast, with lots of plants, flat roofs and sunlight. Where Dunwall was dower and mostly explored at night, you get to see Karnaca during the day or at golden hour, a change I welcome wholeheartedly. You also get to explore a lot more of Karnaca; there are no repeat levels in the city and the only repetition is actually the first and final level in Dunwall.

Karnaca is a beautiful city. A lot of things that felt underdeveloped or missing in Dunwall are present here; other than civilians on the streets there are shops and apartments which have owners and residents and actual lootable objects. The posters, advertisements, labels and newspapers are also better; with the newspaper it actually replaces the loudspeaker system from the first game and it will report on your previous missions. I absolutely love the Serkonian traveling band and their music, the audio-graphs that play music or announcements, the conversations on the street you can overhear and the sound of the sea.

I loved Dunwall but the only time I ever felt truly connected and invested in saving the city was in the DLC and the Flooded District level. The color pallet alone does wonders to make me more invested, because the grays and browns are changed for bright oranges, yellows and pinks and the amount of interaction you get with the city while still not playing an open world game is genuinely impressive.

A lot of this is due to the technical and graphic improvements of the game. Character animations are greatly improved; people make faces when they talk, they move their arms and head, and NPCs have a lot more idle animations like smoking, drinking, gambling, etc.

The changes to the dialogue system also allow for a lot of improvement: Dishonored doesn’t have cut-scenes, but it does have scripted dialogue moments. In the first game, this was done via letterbox effect with the character stopping in the middle of the screen, looking at the player completely straight on and delivering the lines.

In the sequel characters move around the room, lean in or just move their heads and arms. This is the most noticeable with the Outsider: in the original, he would talk to you straight on, with his hands crossed Angela Merkel style; here, he walks around, kneels, squats, leans into the frame, touches Emily way more often, and just generally acts like the chaotic man-child that he is.

Character models are also greatly improved. I love the design and stylized look of the first game, but it pales in comparison to the sequel. In the original and the DLC, characters are blocky and square, and there are only like 3 different models for the City Watch and Officers and 2 for random NPCs. Everyone looks the same, especially male characters and characters that are supposed to be young were indistinguishable from older characters.

Dishonored 2 is still stylized but I like the stylization way better and there is an actual variety of bodies and faces.  Like the DLC, Dishonored 2 has female enemies, and they have a lot more personality, with tattoos, scars, and generally look like they mean business.

Enemies and Combat:

Like I said, there have been great improvements in the enemies, not just in how they look and act, but also their variety and abilities. While in Dunwall you fight more or less what you fought in the first game and DLC: Hatters, Witches, City Watch and Overseers. Since Granny Rags (with your help) decimated the Bottlestreet Gang, the Hatters and Witches have replaced them as the supreme street level enemies and once again, I love the addition of female Hatters.

In Karnaca we have City Watch, Officers, Witches and Overseers but we also have a few new enemy types. The guards in Karnaca are a lot more brutal than the ones in Dishonored, but they are also way more interesting. Some of their lines just sound a lot better and the first few times they really hit me. I distinctly remember going out of my way to keep this one guard alive just because he talked about being distracted by a kiss, and choosing not to kill another sleeping guard because he talked about missing his kids in his sleep.

The new additions include Duke Abelle’s elite guards, and the Howler gang ran by Paolo and Mindy Blanchard; and Kirin Jindosh’s crazy invention, the Clockwork soldiers.

The Howlers are a good enemy that I liked fighting. They usually set up traps that are sometimes pretty easy to stumble into, and communicate via howling like wolves. Paolo is amazing in his own right, but we’ll talk about him when we do the level breakdowns.

As for the Clockwork Soldiers, I hated them. They are a really hard enemy, this game’s version of tallboys, but infinitely more frustrating to fight. To start, you don’t fight them in large open areas, but often in small, isolated corridors and rooms. They are huge, can see from the front and the back, and pretty much kill you in one shot. Destroying them is an ordeal on par with pulling teeth; the most effective way I found is throwing a sticky grenade at one, that damages it enough so that it goes haywire and destroys it’s pal. I genuinely hated fighting these enemies and I will own up that it’s entirely because I’m bad at it and not because they are badly designed.

For another thing I hate, let’s talk about this game’s version of the Wheepers. Karnaca is both a port and a mining town; Serkonos is home to the silver mines which is how Abelle is both so rich and powerful. Because of the mines the town and a lot of the people are afflicted with blood fever, a disease transmitted by the bite of a bloodfly.

Bloodflies are creepy on their own; they attack in swarms, have really disgusting red nests that make noises when you destroy them and lay eggs in dead bodies. But the best part? Nest Keepers.

Nest Keepers are people afflicted with blood fever who have gone mad. Like Wheepers they are near decomposing and completely mindless, but unlike Wheepers they get aggressive when they notice you and scream loudly which alerts the entire swarm and they attack you. The worst part is that Nest Keepers are always in the worst places and surprise you, and I remember a particularly horrifying moment where I passed by a window and a Nestkeeper saw me and screamed and banged on it, scaring the shit out of me.

Gameplay:

The gameplay in Dishonored 2 is similar to the first game. If you play as Corvo you get all the same powers you did in the first game, but if you play as Emily you get similar abilities and a couple of unique ones. We have Far Reach which functions similarly to Blink but works by pulling Emily to objects, meaning you can also use it to pull objects and enemies to you. There is also Dark Vision which allows you to see enemies and security systems, Shadow Walk which turns you into a shadowy monster that’s less visible and can sneak around enemies and Domino which allows you to link the consciousness of different targets and knock them out all at once.

She also gets a few added abilities like Doppelganger which allows you to create a copy of yourself that can be used as a distraction and to even the odds; Mesmerize which can summon a Void spirit to enthrall humans and hounds; Blood thirst which fills up a frenzy type meter while fighting; and Shadow Kill which turns unaware enemies into ash when they are killed. 

As for the weapons we get a much greater variety this time. We have the standard sword, crossbow and sleep dart, but we also get a fire bolt, explosive bolt, howler bolt and stinging bolt. We also get sticky grenades, stun mines, regular grenades and rewire tools. Unlike Corvo who had Piero as his regular salesman, Emily has to use a new mechanic which are the Black Markets.

Black Markets are a feature I really like and are basically an expansion of the favors from the DLC. There is a Black Market in almost every level you play, and you can always rob it. These places are also good for getting information, upgrading gear and weapons and they also serve as part of the story.

Lets go over the characters real quick. We have the returning cast of Corvo, Emily, Delilah, the Outsider, Billie Lurk, and Sokolov, and then a host of new characters. We have: Luka Abelle, Briana Ashwood, Kirin Jindosh, Aramis Stilton, Dr Hypatia, Paolo, Mindy Blanchard, High Overseer Burn and Luca Pastor.

So now that we’ve covered the basic overall changes, it’s time to talk about how they actually affect the game. Join me in part 8 where we will look at the first 4 levels and talk about them in more detail. 

part 6 < > part 8

[exalok]

Prince!Daud AU, part 11 (repost)

The Prince was skilled at wielding a sword – not quite enough to rival Corvo, but definitely more than was usually expected of the nobility – and showed it consistently over the next few times they sparred, regularly getting hits through Corvo's defenses, and rarely making a big enough blunder for Corvo to give the killing blow. As a result, most of their sessions ended in a draw. There was no more dirty fighting after the first time. (Still, Corvo's guard stayed up as long as their swords were out.)

The scrape of the knifeblade against his neck kept coming back to him at odd moments; more than once he found himself lifting a hand to scratch the cold spot on his throat where it had dug in. An unusual weapon in itself, for a noble, being so unadorned, but... Even the Grand Guard wore their weapons on their belts, plainly visible, and the aristocrats with their austentatious longswords swinging from the hip, more for the intimidation potential than the possibility they might have to defend themselves with it... Lydia's words ran through his head: involved in shady business. It was the weapon of someone expecting trouble. Maybe a gang member's weapon. Considering his status, a gang leader's weapon.

No – ridiculous. Corvo grimaced to himself, discarding the idea. Other nobles had gotten involved in illegal business without joining any gangs; perhaps the Prince's men had ties to one or more, but the Prince himself? No... Though association with a gang might explain why so many of his people had disappeared recently, if he'd crossed the wrong organization.

Corvo's eyes followed the Prince as he traversed the mat to the table in the corner, set up with a wide basin of water for washing. He had foregone wearing shirts after the first fight. (Corvo, on the other hand, had clung even more tightly to the idea of wearing his full regalia. He needed some kind of barrier between himself and all of that very naked skin.) In the back of his mind, another thought circled: Jessamine's answer hadn't arrived the day before. The disappointment of seeing the newly-received envelopes on Daud's desk and not finding Jess's insignia among them still lingered, bitter in his throat. She was probably even busier than last time, finishing up with organizing for the arrival of the Serkonan supplies, not to mention Emily –

Remembering her brought a rush of warmth, and he looked off to the bay windows, Karnaca sprawling and golden beyond the blue of the water.

“Pleasant thoughts?” Daud asked, coming back to where Corvo rested near the wall. He hadn't dried off well enough: trickles of water still ran from his neck and shoulders where he'd wiped off the worst of the sweat, down the thick muscle of his chest, trailing to the loose hem of his pants.

“Uh?” he answered, and Daud must have taken it for a question since he said:

“You were smiling,” his brow somber but the corner of his lips twitching, not quite imperceptible. Corvo stared him straight in the eye and saw nothing but that secretive little movement, the minute shift in the skin of Daud's face, the shadow of a crease beside his mouth. He swallowed.

“You didn't tell me your men were disappearing,” he said, spouting the first thing he could think of to distract himself from– from that face, that animal grace, that everything, and immediately regretted it. He had meant to bring it up at the opportune moment – mostly consisting of the Prince drunk and amenable, though simply relaxed might do the trick, and he supposed post-sparring was about as relaxed as the Prince ever got, but he just wasn't– Void, of all the stupid things to say, he just wasn't ready to have this conversation.

Daud looked at him, blank and opaque with his mouth hanging slightly open, and reached for the shirt he had left on the floor.

“I told you I was expecting an attack,” he said, adjusting the drape of it along his shoulders. “You should have assumed I had a reason.”

“But you didn't tell me what that reason was,” Corvo forged on, determined to see this through now that he'd started it. Daud sighed a breath through his nose and passed a hand through his hair to comb it back from his eyes.

“I didn't think it was all that relevant,” said Daud's voice, distantly, as Corvo observed the arc of his hand. Sunlight didn't stream into the room directly, otherwise it would have quickly overheated even in the cooler weather just before Serkonan winter – but the wind-jagged waters of the ocean shimmered with it in the panorama beyond the windows, and so it seemed did the Prince's hair, every tousled strand gleaming reddish gold, damp clumps limned in light.

The Prince dropped unceremoniously down to the ground and sprawled half-sitting against the wall. Only half of his shirt buttons were done.

“I heard they vanished on trips to the city,” Corvo told the windows opposite where they sat, eyes studiously fixed on the outline of the mountains. “Is that why you're never careful? You don't think whoever did it will cross the bay and come here?” He'd been thinking about it since Lydia had told him, trying to put the pieces together. That feeling of wrong, that had twisted around inside him all through the boat ride from Dunwall – it was starting to nag at him again. The pieces didn't fit. It didn't make sense, and not in the way the behavior of Jessamine's court had been impossibly, infuriatingly backwards.

“I don't need to be careful.” Daud cushioned his head with his hands, and Corvo leaned to the side to avoid being elbowed in the head. A sound – a chuckle, hissed through closed teeth, and the cavalier finish: “After all, you're here to make sure I don't get assassinated.”

Corvo turned to him, senses sharp. For a moment, he'd sounded– honest, almost; open, as though the mask Corvo had come to know had slipped, and there had been a glimpse of the flesh and feeling face beneath.

Then his words had been like a door slammed shut. Final. The feeling of wrong pulsed like an infected wound.

Perhaps looking at him hadn't been the best of ideas, though. The front of his shirt hung open to his navel, nacreous buttons glistening next to his sun-starved skin, and sprawled as he was with knees half-drawn up the Prince was a disheveled display of physicality. Corvo was becoming uncomfortably aware of the smell of hair lacquer and fresh sweat. He opened his mouth for another question, another stray thought –

“Hold,” said the Prince, and Corvo's jaw snapped shut.

Daud was rifling through the pockets of his own coat, the dark, indistinctly colored one from the gala nearly a month ago; when he threw the coat aside, he had something small and metallic, carefully folded, in the palm of his hand. Corvo recognized the shape: a hand crossbow.

“Going to take a walk?” he asked as he took the offered weapon. The bridge of Daud's nose wrinkled, less a sneer than a gently mocking grimace.

“It's a gift, bodyguard.” He leaned against the wall again, head tilting back, and gestured at the crossbow one-handed. “Pistols aren't worth the shit under your boot, long-distance. Keep it.”

Corvo activated the mechanism that made the branches of the bow spring apart and saw, this time, that it was a different make than the one the Prince had let him borrow: slightly larger, not the kind of structure you could strap to your arm for ease of carrying but solid, with a powerful draw. The stock was etched with fine, curled lines, barely perceptible beneath the callus of Corvo's thumb. There were a handful of bolts strapped to the body of the crossbow, and more in the compartment inside the stock. Corvo hefted it, hand around the grip, finger by the trigger – heavier than the Prince's, but not so much it would wear on his arm. A beautiful weapon.

“I don't–” he began, and the Prince cut him off with a sweeping motion of his hand.

“Keep it,” the Prince repeated, finally doing up the rest of his buttons. “Call it an investment, if a gift doesn't suit your tastes.” Daud rose, grabbing his vest and coat, put the first on with a businesslike efficiency and pulled the second over his shoulder. Corvo remained on the floor, holding the miniature crossbow. The metal was starting to warm in his hands.

Daud's boot nudged him in the thigh.

“Come on, get up.” The Prince was already swinging open the door.

“Going somewhere?” Corvo asked, rolling into a crouch and rising, one smooth movement, as he tucked the crossbow into the inner pocket of his coat.

Daud smirked at him over his shoulder. “Don't you always insist on following me regardless?”

You don't generally encourage it, though, Corvo didn't say; felt his mouth make some wry, pleased shape anyway; said, “I do,” moving to occupy his customary spot (behind, a little to the left: the same he'd had under Jessamine) – and nearly collided with the Prince, who had stopped in the doorway with no warning.

Daud's jaw worked as though he meant to say something more, his eyes flickering between Corvo's, probing – He cleared his throat; his gaze strayed back to the corridor.

“Let's go.”

Corvo watched him for the next while, curious, but found no more sign of that startled, dawning expression.