#the hound pits pub

[craanbery]

[invisiblestation]

[melanie-ohara]

I'll Be Your All For Now

Whumpuary2024, Day 27 - Prompt: Sleep Deprivation

Lord Pendleton is drunk, and Wallace Higgins takes it out on Cecelia

I hate Wallace. Fuck Wallace.

AO3 Here

It had been easier before young Lady Emily had arrived. Wallace had only ever insisted on Master Pendleton's room being perfectly cleaned and the bar neatly swept, and didn't mind if the other rooms gathered a little dust. The soon to be Empress changed all that. With her child's curiosity taking her all over the Hound Pits, Wallace insisted that every room as well as the courtyard and the street outside be spotless at all times. Of course, Wallace didn't muck in himself: he was a butler, which limited his responsibilities to bringing Lord Pendleton wine and listening to him rave drunkenly about his brothers. Cecelia knew he had to keep his fingernails clean or Pendleton would throw a tumbler at his head, but she wished he would at least pretend he felt bad about putting her and Lydia to work at all hours of the day.

The first time he made her work through the night, Lady Emily had tripped on a stone and skinned her knee. The girl had hopped back to her feet and carried on playing, but Wallace was insistent it not happen again, and he made Cecelia walk the yard all night with a lantern, collecting any stone that might do the young lady injury and tossing it in the Wrenhaven river. By the time she finished, the sun had risen over the water and, despite the beauty and tranquility of the river at dawn, she was already late to start preparing breakfast. After almost thirty-six hours, she collapsed into her bunk with her eyes aching to close. 

It didn't stop. Pendleton grew more and more belligerent the more he drank and the more assassinations he ordered, and Wallace took the brunt of his short temper. The day Pendleton bruised his face, he ordered Cecelia to sweep the building from top to bottom twice, which meant waiting for Lord Corvo to wake and leave for his nightly excursion to the city. Lydia was safe from his ire, of course - she had Havelock's favour, after helping him run the bar for so long. She even pretended not to know the Overseer Martin spent most nights in the Admiral's quarters, when she wasn't there herself. Wallace's ire grew stronger and his reasons for keeping Cecelia working at all hours became less and less convincing, until she finally decided he must just like doing it - he liked it when she could barely keep her eyes open, or fell asleep standing up and leaning on a broom in the cellar. Maybe it made him feel better to pass on Pendleton's ire. He had never liked being reminded that ultimately he was lower than the nobles he served, so he had decided to show Cecelia that she was lower than him. And because she was the bottom rung of the ladder, with nothing below her but the rats, there was nothing she could do about it except suffer.

After a week, Cecelia barely knew what she was doing any more. Her body moved mechanically - certainly stiffly enough to be some kind of Sokolov automaton - while her mind drifted. She barely even slept when she did make it to bed now, since Wallace could call on her at any time to clean the toilets or unblock a sink, or go down into the wine cellar and look for a bottle she'd never be able to find because she couldn't read the labels. She lost track of time, and Wallace chastised her for sweeping the same spot for an hour, or staring slackjawed at a wall while holding a cleaned glass. He never raised his voice, which she thought was strange, as Pendleton was always screaming. Wallace's cruelty was quiet. 

"Cecelia, isn't it?"

The voice that drifted to her through the haze was soft and polite. She'd heard Callista Curnow speak from time to time, around the grounds of the pub, but she mostly only talked to the nobility. As a governess, she was above the other servants, though technically her duties fell under Wallace's purview. She probably wasn't even aware of how tyrannical the butler had become.

"Yes miss," Cecelia said, standing up straight and going to put her hands behind her back politely, only to find she was holding a mop. "Oh," she said.

"Are you quite alright?" Callista asked, resting her hand on Cecelia's shoulder.

She managed a weak smile. "Yes miss," she said. Glancing around, she remembered that Wallace had sent her to mop the floor at the base of the stairs. As Callista nodded and took a step back, Cecelia went to dip the mop back in the water bucket. She knocked it over instead, and the brown water sloshed out over Callista's shiny black shoes. 

Callista gasped in shock as it splashed up her legs and hopped backwards out of the water's reach. Cecelia stared at it for a moment, and then broke.

"I'm so sorry!" she wailed, "Miss Callista, I'm such a clumsy fool, I didn't mean it!"

"No, no, it's quite alright," Callista said, but it was too late now. Wallace would have Cecelia start over the second he found out, and probably a whole list of other chores too that would keep her so busy she'd have to choose between a few minutes' fitful sleep or getting something to eat.

She let out a choked wail and fell to her knees in the dirty water, but still reached out for the bucket. Maybe if she could clean it up quickly, it wouldn't be so bad. Unless Callista told Wallace about her ruined shoes, of course. The governess was picking her way gingerly across the floor, trying to use only the tips of her shoes to step in the water as she came to Cecelia's side.

"Please don't tell Wallace," she managed to gasp out through heaving sobs. "I have to get it sorted out."

She was surprised when Callista kneeled in front of her and took her hands, pushing them firmly away from the toppled bucket and into Cecelia's lap. "I promise I won't," she said. "Now hush, it's only a spilled bucket."

"No, you don't understand!" Cecelia moaned, but Callista shook her head. 

"I understand you're upset, Cecelia," she said softly. 

She peered at her face, as if she was seeing her for the first time. Callista had three spotless and identical uniforms, which Lydia was in charge of washing. Cecelia only had the one jacket and trousers, and two threadbare shirts she had darned until there was almost nothing left of the original fabric. Where Callista's skin was smooth and clean, Cecelia's was pockmarked and filthy from a lifetime of small meals and endless work. And then there were her eyes. They were constantly bloodshot now, and ringed with circles so dark it looked like the makeup she had always wanted but never been able to afford. 

"You must be exhausted," she said. 

Cecelia shook her head and looked away from her eyes. "I'm fine, miss," she said. "I can still work."

Callista stood up suddenly, and held out her hand for Cecelia to take. "Not a chance. Come with me."

The only way to access Lady Emily's tower was through the Royal Protector's room, and Cecelia was terrified of tripping and waking him as Callista led her through by the wrist. She didn't dare look down as they walked over the bridge, which was built by Piero but still looked rickety and unstable, and she could scarcely stand it as Callista let go of her hand and left her to sway in the breeze while she opened the door to the child's room.

"Hello," Lady Emily said breezily as the two of them stepped inside. She was sitting on the floor with a doll and a tea set, but she stood up when they entered. "Oh, hello," she added, with a polite wave when she saw Cecelia, who curtsied. She wasn't sure how to do it, and the girl's giggle told her she had done it wrong.

"Go and play outside, Emily," Callista said, far more firmly than Cecelia expected from someone talking to an Empress, but the child seemed happy enough to take her doll and hurry out of the room. She was humming to herself as she skipped along the rickety bridge to her Protector's room. "Now," Callista said, turning to Cecelia again. "You need rest."

The adrenaline of standing outside so close to the unprotected edge of the building over a fall high enough to kill her twice over was waning now, and Cecelia had to admit the two beds in the room looked incredibly inviting. "I can't," she protested weakly. "Wallace would - "

"Wallace is not allowed in here," Callista reminded her. "Only Lydia. I'll tell him I've sent you on an errand. Emily always needs more pencils and drawing paper after all."

Cecelia wasn't sure what to say, but she felt tears of gratitude escape her eyes and she wiped at them with her sleeve before she started sobbing again.

"There, there," Callista said, pulling her into a gentle embrace. "Get some rest," she murmurred against the shell of Cecelia's ear. "I'll have a word with Wallace."

Cecelia shook her head but couldn't bring herself to argue when she could see the bed over Callista's shoulder. It looked the way food looked to the starving. When Callista pulled away from the hug she stumbled towards it with an eagerness that would be embarrassing if she wasn't so desperate to lay down her head. Callista waited with her until she had pulled the blankets closed and settled against the pillow with a sigh. She wanted to apologise to the governess for the state of her clothes and how she would have to change the bedclothes before she herself went to bed, but before she could get the words out of her mouth, the warmth of sleep had claimed her.

Callista smiled down at a curl of red hair spilling across Cecelia's forehead, and then turned and let her sleep.

[presiding]

Wow, wow, okay. I don't know where to start.

The ghosts of the hound pits pub is one of the most amazing things I've ever read. I could feel the tragedy and the haunting atmosphere in every word, and it filled every moment with a bittersweet tone. I was waiting for the heartbreak to hit full force and when it happened, well, it was brilliant.

I already loved Billie, but you also made me love Cecelia in ways I can't explain. Let's just say, my soul is in pain and I have to lie down for a second to process how much everything hurts :)

No, but seriously, you're an amazing writer. Thank you so much for sharing your work!

😭thank you so much - aaa i'm really glad you enjoyed the ghosts of the hound pits pub!

i love them both too! cecelia is someone i overlooked myself on the first playthrough but when i came back to the game i found her really compelling, and wanted to do her some justice. to date it's the fic i've been most happy with, despite being doomed to not be as popular as something more fandom-palatable (more horror than romance; a rarepair; a F/F ship).

in a coincidence that made me laugh i've been (lovingly) accused twice recently of having a predilection for bad outcomes in my stories - i'm a big softie.... who admittedly does love high stakes & tension. i like the cathartic potential of fiction!

thank you SO much for reaching out, it means a lot to me :') <3

[tixij]

I've replayed dishonored like 500 times and it's still showing me things I had no clue existed

[iamthekarmapolice]

i think one of my favourite moments in this game so far is exploring the temple of shar and seeing the wizard tower from the underdark across the distance. the same wizard tower that i was at 10 hours ago and could see this temple from, wondering when i was going to get there. it’s so satisfying when you can see a place from another place in a game!!!!!

[deepdwellingsteamboat]

The Hound Pits Pub at night DISHONORED 2012・dev. Arkane Studios

[carnalapples]

i love that the loyalists are all 2 seconds away from fucking nasty or killing each other. wonderful ambiance at the hound pits pub

[a-driftamongopenstars]

heretic; dishonored fic; corvosider;

i got a dishonored bug again omg. i've been thinking about how Corvo has to hide the mark after DH1, so here is a fic to explore that thought. corvosider ensues, of course, have you met me :) read on ao3

The days that follow up Emily’s restoration to the throne are a whirlwind. There is barely a moment to close eyes or to indulge in a drink and food in a way that a body remembers. Corvo’s entire focus is on keeping his daughter, his Empress, safe.

Only countless days later does he have a chance to step behind his chambers’ door, closing it tight, turning the lock and breathing out.

The room is pleasantly dark, only the moon peeking through the window curtains, casting peculiar shadows against the paneled walls and oil-brushed paintings. The sounds of the Tower are quiet as the staff and the imperial inhabitants all go to sleep. All but Corvo.

For a moment, the weight of duty falls off his shoulder as he takes off his waistcoat. 

He stands in front of a water basin, filled with cool water. He unwinds the concealing fabric from his hands and drops it to the floor. In the dark, his truth is revealed, and the water ripples with a reflection of a terrible dark mark on his left hand.

If only the Overseers saw him. As he stands watch beside Emily in the small Tower Chapel, as they recite the strictures and burn their censers, they don’t know how deep the roots of the Void go in the very heart of the Empire. They cannot know that it was that power which saved them all. They cannot know the liaison between the Lord Protector and the most hated figure within the Abbey of the Everyman’s teachings.

Corvo moves his fingers through the water, cupping it to splash it against his face. When he looks back into the basin, he thinks he sees a familiar face, one that has been in his dreams and the waking hours. 

An awe-struck sensation passes through his entire body. He is marked forever now. He belongs to the Outsider, to the other side of this world. Not to do his bidding, but to entertain him, to prove him over and over again about the nature of men. 

The mark makes violence easier. But on the hand of a patient man, it is a weapon far more lethal. And Corvo is anything but impatient.

And now, a heretic. 

He splashes his face again, and the ripples scare away the visage.

He stares at his hand, the black ink of the Void under his skin. Corvo has been holding back on using it. Through the weeks of his work against the Regent, it has become like second nature, too easy. No height too high, no distance too far, no wall too thick to conceal anything behind it.

And yet, when he uses it, it makes him feel stronger, body and mind.

It’s just one more time. Just to see if he still can, if the Outsider still favours him. 

With a simple gesture, Corvo brings the time to a halt. 

That is when the Outsider, his strange benefactor, slips from the Void into this world. 

The air is heavy with his presence. He brings with him whispers and whale song and showers of coal-like rocks that blink in and out of existence. His black eyes, as Corvo glances at them, are beautiful as ever - and as terrifying. 

“Oh how history loves irony. A marked hand beside the Imperial throne. I wonder what you shall do with this, dear Corvo.”

His voice cuts through the air, sound distorted yet strangely sweet. Echoed, like a crashing ocean wave.

Corvo looks away. He is still undecided. In his mind he sees many ways it can go. He sees himself never again resorting to the Outsider's power, ever cautious to soothe the temptation of easy answers. He sees a balance, where a clear head and determined mind work together, and the mark glows occasionally with dignity. He sees the acts of violence he could commit in the name of his daughter and his empire, making sure nothing stands in her way. 

He sees himself kneeled beside the shrine, never in prayer but in bated breath. 

Corvo has danced on that precipice in the attic of the Hound Pits pub. Favoured, singled out, even praised. He has never been one to love the Overseers, and the thrill of the witchcraft already running through his blood was only natural. But even more so, the black-eyed god’s speeches, glances, preference. Swift caress of ice cold fingers against his stubbled cheek.

He looks back at the Outsider, who stands before him now, breaking the seams of reality with his very presence.

“What shall it be, I wonder? In the eyes of your Empire, you are now a heretic. But little does the Empire know it is that which saved it, which brought its enemies to their end. The Overseers are blind to such truths.”

The air grows cold with the Outsider's presence. The barrier between here and the Void is thin, threatening to spill either reality into the other. Shadows dance gleefully on the walls, as if performing a ritual. Any moment the floor could break apart into pieces and send Corvo flying into the abyss.

And then, like a single time before, he finds himself leaning to his god, finding his ever-talking mouth and silencing it with a kiss. It is many things: a prayer, a question, a confirmation. Heresy, delirious sweet heresy. 

His marked hand rests tightly around the Outsider's nape, holding him in place while the man and the god indulge in something impossible and forbidden. 

Corvo tastes the Void. It reminds him why he can never let go of it. Outsider’s lips part for him, and Corvo finds a flicker of humanity in that simple motion as their breath mingles.

Corvo pulls back to look in the Outsider's eyes. Pools of black nothing, stunning him to his core. Unblinking. His smile, small and implausible, and never reaching his eyes. The Outsider cocks his head, resting his palm against Corvo's chest, sliding it down and letting it fall. 

And then the Outsider is gone. The room is full of colour again, and the water basin is empty of reflections. 

Corvo finds himself breathing heavily. And he knows he cannot make a decision right now, and maybe he doesn't need to, not yet. The taste of the Outsider's mouth still lingers upon his lips like a promise. 

If this is what the Abbey has warned again, then he is ready to be a heretic. How much sweeter would the recital of the Seven Strictures sound, if he were to speak them with his Void-bitten lips?

[nevermindigotthis]

I think there should be a Dishonored TV show.

Imagine this: The Series follows several POV characters: Corvo (duh, probably in a low chaos run with some deaths), Emily (duh, little girl and the horrible no good very bad day, we see how she deals with the conspiracy and it can give some background on the villains), Daud (big regrets, has his whole Delilah story which, for TV reasons, happens at the same time as Corvo's revenge plot so the series can cut between them), and lastly Billie (lovestory with Delilah, betrayal of Daud, mercy in the end)

There can be amazing parallels between Corvo's low chaos revenge and Daud's quest for redemption, with a tense confrontation in Episode 8/9. Delilah as this secret foil that Corvo doesn't even know about, for dramatic purposes Daud has to defeat her in the last episode, so there can be a moment where the audience doesn't quite know if the Emily Corvo just rescued is still Emily. (For dramatic purposes this also needs to be the high chaos ending where Emily almost falls to her death, even though we're in mostly low chaos)

The Series (rough draft):

Episode 1: Corvo returns from his trip. Jess is murdered, Emily abducted. Title Screen. 6 months later. Corvo is being tortured in Coldridge. Daud is depressed and guiltridden. Billie is unimpressed. Episode ends with Corvo breaking out of Coldridge.

Episode 2: Corvo meets the Loyalists. Daud meets the Outsider who gives him the name "Delilah". Also he turns down contracts. Billie expresses her disapproval (again) and leaves the hideout to cool off. Emily is being held captive by the Pendletons who are being creepy and she tries to find a way out. Corvo gains the Mark of the Outsider and the Heart.

Episode 3: Corvo goes after Campbell, rescuing Martin along the way. Daud starts investigating (slaughterhouse). Billie is angry and leaves the hideout, meeting up with a lover who is afterwards revealed to be Delilah (her first appearance). Emily almost gets away from her captors, but is caught at the last second.

Episode 4: Corvo goes to the Golden Cat to rescue Emily. Daud investigates the Timshs. Billie scemes with Delilah to overthrow Daud. Episode ends with Corvo reuniting with Emily.

Episode 5: The Whaler hideout is overrun by Overseers. Billie reveals her betrayal, fights Daud and escapes. Corvo has a nice bonding moment with Emily. Corvo kidnaps Sokolov. Emily talks with the loyalists and gets the vibes that something is not right here.

Episode 6: The Boyle's party. Corvo identifies the right Boyle Lady and deals with her. Billie returns to Delilah who comforts her about having failed to kill Daud. Daud recovers from her betrayal. Emily has nightmares about Corvo dying.

Episode 7: Corvo goes to dispatch Burrows. Emily listens in on the Loyalists and their plans. Daud goes looking for a boat, and then for Lizzy Stride. Delilah reveals the beginning of her painting to Billie. Corvo returns to the Hounds Pit Pub and Emily tries to warn him, but is held back and locked in her room. Corvo is poisoned, Episode ends on him passing out.

Episode 8: Samuel drops Corvo in the Flooded District. Daud returns and finds Corvo. Emily is angry and ready to throw hands with the "loyalists", gets threatened. Bille and Delilah prepare for the ritual, Delilah tells Billie that afterwards she can go and kill Daud for real this time. Corvo wakes up and confronts Daud. They duel, Daud loses, asks for his life, Corvo doesn't say anything, but doesn't kill him. Corvo returns to the Pub.

Episode 9: Emily feels all alone in a cruel world, believing Corvo to be dead. Corvo and Daud both prepare for their final missions in a cool montage. Corvo infiltrates the Fort/Lighthouse and deals with Pendleton and Martin. Daud arrives at Brigmore manor, infiltrates it and finds the entrance to the void. Corvo goes on to search for Emily, her room is empty. Daud talks to the Outsider and confronts Billie and Delilah. Corvo finds Emily and Havelock. Daud fights Billie while Delilah (almost) completes her ritual. Corvo shoots Havelock and catches Emily. Daud injures Billie and goes to stop Delilah, bright flash of light. Emily looks up at Corvo with a strange smile. Delilah has vanished. Daud asks Billie if she's done it. Billie is angry as Delilah is gone, but has a heart to heart with Daud where they leave on relatively okay terms. Daud breathes a sigh of relief. Emily smiles and hugs Corvo, it's clear that she's still herself. Epilogue narration that everything turned out fine. End credit scene of Delilah very angry, but also very alive, in the Void.

Why 9 episodes, you ask? Well because I was trying for 10 but my planning which I came up with just now only wanted 9. 8 or 10 would make more sense from a TV standpoint though. I just think this would be such a cool series...

[type40thiefoflight]

Four things I'd love from a DH1 remake are DH2-style non-lethal takedowns, a third upgrade to Blink that gives you Daud's version, NG+ that makes Knife of Dunwall and Brigmore Witches sepia-toned or black-and-white and gives them a film noir soundtrack, and different non-lethal options for Lady Boyle's Last Party. For DH2 I want another non-lethal option for The Clockwork Mansion.

Lady Boyle's Last Party:

1. Don't have Lady White and Lord Brisby feed you all the information, just subtle hints if anything. I really don't like that he just flat out tells you which sister to go after; it ruins the experience for me.

2. Corvo finds a letter opener in Lady Boyle's bedroom and slips it to her before taking her to Lord Brisby (think Daud swapping Barrister Timsh's documents). Funding a coup is bad but not "getting kidnapped and becoming a sex slave" bad. She can feed Lord Brisby to the hagfish on the way out.

3. Along with Lord Brisby telling Corvo that he's a friend of Treavor Pendleton's and part of the Loyalists, he confesses to being a supply smuggler and after the party is going past the blockade out of the city. All the food for the Hound Pits Pub and Lady Boyle's party had to come from somewhere and I doubt it was local markets.

Lord Brisby still asks Corvo to let Lady Boyle leave with him. He asks Corvo to hide her in an empty crate stashed near the boat in the cellar that he's taking back to his supply ship docked elsewhere. Once Corvo knocks Lady Boyle out and puts her in the crate it triggers a cutscene of Lord Brisby standing next to it on the boat. He thanks us for letting him save her and that he better get out of there before anyone notices they're gone. Yes I know this is just the Bundry Rothwild option again but if it can be reused for Paolo and Overseer Byrne in DH2 it's fine here.

The Clockwork Mansion:

1. The brainwashing chair reminded me of the electric chair in the Golden Cat so why not have Jindosh make an even more elaborate one? I think his punishment should be him getting knocked out in the chair then brought back to the Dreadful Wale and locked up. Maybe you could even zap the riddle's answer out of him or ask him later once he's on the boat. After Delilah is defeated he can be locked up in Coldridge, which we find out through either NPC dialogue or game notes has been reformed by Corvo so nobody has to suffer the way he did.

2. In a low chaos ending maybe you could hire him to make a solution to the whale oil crisis. If Anton "war crimes" Sokolov can be forgiven for infecting his test subjects, lying to them about it, leaving them to turn into weepers or die in his greenhouse, and supplying walls of light to Hiram Burrows, Kirin Jindosh can be let off the hook for supplying Duke Abele and Delilh with clockwork soldiers.

[yanara126-writing]

They Had to Die (2/3)

Corvo Attano enters Dunwall tower fully intending to kill the Lord Regent. It doesn't work out how he intends.

-

Read here or on Ao3 (5872 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

--

When the boat hit the shore right in front of the Hounds Pit Pub the jolt sent lightning through his limbs and Corvo couldn't bite back the grunt that forced itself from his throat. Samuel glanced back at him with concern, but didn't speak up. Corvo was glad for it. He didn't think he could choke out an intelligible response, much less a reassuring one. His wounds were still aching, his leg cramping, and his lungs were burning faintly. He tried not to think of anything else, the aching was easier. Samuel tied the Amaranth to the peer and Corvo dragged himself up from the bottom of the boat.

For a moment he simply stood and breathed as the world did its best to tilt off its axis. Once he no longer felt like something was about to give, be it him or the ground, he gingerly stepped off the boat, slowly and deliberately, no flinching or wavering. No one here needed to know just how much of a disaster the mission had been. Havelock, Martin, and Pendleton were reliable allies, but they were in a precarious situation. A coup, even a counter coup, was dangerous business, and one that didn't allow for decency and empathy. He didn't blame them for it. Politics left no room for good men at the best of times, a lesson he'd learnt quickly and violently upon his arrival in Dunwall. (Not quickly enough.) Cecilia and Lydia for that exact reason did not deserve to be dragged so far into it, to be ruined along with him. Neither did Wallace, for all his grating behaviour. And Emily... Emily should have never had to see what she already had seen. He couldn't- he hadn't been able to protect her from that. He'd failed. But at least he wouldn't add onto it. Emily would never know just how much the last months had cost him if he had any say in it, or at least not until she was much older. For her he would brave whatever terrors the world could throw at him, would suffer through any pain and horror without flinching, to give her at least this little bit of stability in a world gone mad. And right now that meant ignoring the persisting aching throughout his body and the gaping, crippling grief sinking through his limbs like lead. He could break apart later. Much later. Preferably when Emily would be 45, with children of her own and a long, stable tenure as Empress behind her and he himself dead in the ground.

Distantly he wondered if he would be allowed to be buried near the pavillion. If he deserved even that.

Slowly and as securely as he could manage he made his way towards the pub. He left the mask behind where he'd thrown it. He wouldn't need it anymore anyway. From Piero's workshop he could hear a strange whirring, interrupted by the occasional curse, tyvian for some reason. Though it did remind him that he still had to have a word with the Admiral about freeing Sokolov, today and before going to bed. He hadn't argued too hard about keeping him in the cage for the time being, though he had asked Cecilia to make sure he received enough food and water and a warm blanket. The mission had time sensitive, and Sokolov had been disgruntled but nothing worse. That he had made sure of. A lance of pain shot through his leg and Corvo grimaced. Yes, he would have a word with the Admiral about not keeping the inventor locked up unnecessarily, if only to not alienate his considerable support, but he would keep out of it himself if at all possible. The Royal Physician had a habit of poking where he shouldn't, if Sokolov saw him now Corvo would not get to sleep for hours more.

The Heart pulsed once against his chest and Corvo's breath hitched. He steeled his shoulders and ignored it, did his best to push back against the concern almost radiating from it.

(She couldn't make him anymore. If he thought about it more he would end up on the floor again.)

One step after the other he reached the door to the pub and stumbled over the threshold as his foot caught on the sill. A firm hand on his bicep stopped him from planting his face into the floor for the fourth time that day.

Samuel patiently waited for him to right himself, his hand hovering for a moment even after letting go. Corvo took another breath, not quite as deep as he would have liked when his chest ached from the pressure, and walked on, not looking back. He couldn't take another look of concern right now. This moment he couldn't be Corvo Attano, grieving- he couldn't be. He had to be the Royal Protector, the Masked Felon as the wanted posters called him now, if necessary. Competent, efficient, and an untouchable wall between Emily and all who would do her harm.

When he finally fully stepped into the Pub's serving room he didn't turn around, didn't flinch when the room's oppressive warmth nearly choked him again, nor when Havelock caught sight of him and started over with all the subtlety of a navy man on a mission.

"Ah, Corvo! Congratulations are in order! You've done an outstanding job as always, and finally it will all pay off. There will be plenty of work tomorrow, but tonight we celebrate, what do you say? Go on then, everyone is already waiting and I'm sure you'll want a word with the Empress before the governess takes her to bed." Havelock, gruff and commanding as always, didn't give him the opportunity to answer and instead stepped past him, immediately moving his focus to Samuel. Corvo took it as a blessing, though his chest twinged a bit with guilt. Havelock was a lot to deal with at the best of times, and judging by the gleam in his eyes he wasn't at all perturbed by Corvo's unorthodox departure from their plans. But then Havelock usually didn't bother with the servants in the first place, so perhaps he'd finally recognized at least Samuel's worth in their mission. Perhaps Sokolov could wait for at least another night. He'd be... He'd be fine. For the night.

And Havelock certainly wasn't wrong about one thing, Corvo did need to talk with Emily. Just to- just to see. Make sure. Know for certain that she was safe, while Burrow's desperate ramblings about Jessamine's death still hallowed through his bones.

So he left both Havelock and Samuel behind, stepping further into the room. Vaguely he noted that Havelock's 'everyone' seemed to once again exclude Cecilia, Lydia, and Wallace, but there wasn't enough left of him right now to even be disappointed .Tomorrow he would have a word with them, make sure they were well compensated. Even aside from any ethical concerns, it wouldn't do to breed resentment in their ranks. Emily didn't need another knife to the back.

Pendleton and Martin were conversing at the bar. Martin barely glanced at Corvo before furrowing his brows with something that might have been displeasure. Or maybe disapproval. Discontent. Something like it. Either way he simply nodded towards Corvo, curt but polite, and quickly drew Pendleton's attention again before the noble could do more than quickly greet Corvo himself.

Gratitude softened something in Corvo's chest, soothed the deep aches spreading through his body just enough to make slipping past the bar not quite as exhausting anymore. Out of all the leading Loyalists he found Martin to be the most approachable. Perhaps it was their chaotic meeting, the man's own humble origins, if Corvo had interpreted J- the Heart's cryptic messages correctly, or perhaps it was simply a trait of character, but where conversations with Pendleton and Havelock often felt more like listening to a speech in parliament, Martin seemed more interested in actual conversations.

It did not escape Corvo that the man he trusted the most was deliberately failing his job when it came to him.

For a man of the Abbey Martin had proven remarkably willing to overlook the black magic and mark Corvo had unthinkingly flaunted at Holger Square, still unused to the new skills and dazed by his sudden freedom. Martin had barely raised an eyebrow, and even later at the Hounds Pit Pub had only remarked on it once, implying a promise of silence. Corvo knew that at a later date he would have to address it, figure out just how far Martin was willing to deviate from the morals of the Abbey, if not his own, for the sake of his ambitions, but for now Campbell's black book and the promised seat of the High Overseer would keep him busy enough.

At the other side of the room, in the same booth as always, Emily sat with a page of paper and her scavenged crayons, intensely scribbling away at her new drawing, while Callista watched over her. Waiting for him. Relief flooded his veins and made his steps just a touch lighter, even as he reminded himself that she was safe here, that Burrows had not killed her, had not harmed her enough to break her.

When Emily spotted him she hopped up in her seat excitedly, crayons forgotten, and made as if to jump towards him, before Callista gently tugged her down again. It made his heart ache to see his brave, smart little firebrand pout at being tempered, though he knew Callista as nothing but kind if too strict for Emily's tastes. It was an old ache, one he'd first confessed to Jessamine in a quiet moment of intimacy before Emily had even been born, that feeling of loss at knowing that- their child would never quite know the freedoms of his own brief childhood. Jessamine had said nothing for a long while, simply stroked his hair in silence, his head on her swollen belly. Those little freedoms they had been able to afford her were gone as well now, stolen by the knife that had killed her mother and about to be smothered by the throne that had done no less.

Corvo managed to get exactly as far as the booth before his knees gave out and he slumped onto the bench, only to suddenly find himself with an armful of Emily, who didn't seem to take issue with the fact that he was still thoroughly damp.

"Corvo! I'm so glad you're back!" Her arms wrapped around him as tightly as she could with her ten year old might, her face shoved into his chest. Mindful of his own state he carefully laid his own arms around her shoulders, torn between wanting to hold her close just as tightly and trying not to dirty her delicate white suit even more. She'd need it tomorrow.

After a few moments she lifted her head, though her grip didn't loosen, and looked up at him with wide, wet eyes that showed far too much inner conflict for her age. "Are we- are we going home now?"

That question broke him more than anything else, the look in her eyes that betrayed it as anything but the innocent desire of a child. For there was no home for them to return to, not truly. Not when- not with Jessamine gone, with half the city dead and the other untrustworthy. Not with the Tower forever ruined by what had happened and would no doubt still happen.

He pulled Emily close, giving up any hope of keeping her clean. She buried her face in his throat, his nose in her hair. The moment took an eternity and yet not nearly long enough.

It was ended by Callista quietly clearing her throat. When Corvo glanced up she was still intently busying herself with her needlework, but in the meantime it seemed Havelock had finished whatever his business with Samuel had been and had joined Martin and Pendleton at the bar, each with a drink in their hand. Corvo kept his back to them, shielding her from view, as he slowly let go of Emily and gently pried himself out of her grip. Somehow it hurt even more that she resisted for only a moment before relenting, when six months ago she would have clung to him until- until Jessamine would have pulled her off.

Corvo hoped his smile didn't look as heartbroken as it felt, desperately forced onto his face at the sight of his far too knowing little empress brushing off her clothes and straightening her back. Acting on a sudden impulse, the burning need for just a little bit of normalcy, he lifted his hand and ruffled her hair. Dragging out his time he pulled her close by the neck and pressed a kiss onto her head, trying to ignore the way it smelled of river water and brine, instead of Jessamine's favourite hair oil.

"Tomorrow we'll go home," he rasped quietly into her hair. It hurt to even mumble, his throat still sore and abused, but Emily's slight nod and seeking pressure against his lips was well worth it.

Eventually, as it always happened, he pulled away, once again the Royal Protector to the Empress. No matter that she was now tiny and afraid, that he'd failed already, that he desperately wanted nothing more than to grab her and leave. If not out of Dunwall, then at least out of the room, somewhere quiet where she could draw her pictures for a few hours, label them with terms of affection that didn't need to be hidden for fear of destabilizing her already precarious position.

Corvo pushed himself out of the booth, keeping a hand on the table because it was less embarrassing than falling on his face. Callista packed away her needlework in a pouch on her belt, got up herself and gently took Emily's hand, who looked up to him with doleful eyes but obediently followed her governess out of the room. Corvo watched her leave, his feet rooted firmly to the ground, and took just a bit of pleasure from ber refusal to follow Callista's example of curtseying to the three men at the bar before leaving. Once they were gone, off to put Emily to bed now that she'd seen him return (and he'd seen her alive, he wasn't a fool, he knew they could see his desperation as much as he tried to stay reasonable), Corvo finally turned to the council of Loyalists, putting all energy he had left into trying not to slouch. He simply had to do his duty of looking pretty for a few moments, as Jessamine had phrased, make his political contribution to the celebration, and then he could go to sleep for at least three hours. Maybe check in on Emily again before he keeled over entirely.

Havelock handed him a glass of whiskey that had sat on the counter, but it was Pendleton who spoke first, a strange nervous gleam in his eyes. Unsurprising really, the man was not brave by nature, though he clearly fought to overcome that hindrance for their mission. Admirable, for all the man's other faults.

"Damn me, he's done it! Word is spreading all over the city. The tyranny is over. By this time tomorrow Emily will be on the throne. After that we'll clear your name and put everything we've got into rebuilding the city." Corvo felt like the brittle comb he'd tried to drag through his tangled and ruined hair after he'd first dragged himself into consciousness here at the pub. This proclamation was the knot that finally broke off the fragile teeth. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant sensation. It was a giving of tension, the tearing of the strings keeping him upright and running. It was assurance that it really was done, even if not quite as as anyone had been planning, as much as it was the pain of knowing deep in his bones that now he'd have to learn to live without Jessamine. Actually live, not drag himself from day to day just to survive.

The sudden knowledge made his head hurt enough he nearly missed Havelock's interjection. "I wish there were more of a city to rule. Most of Dunwall is rats and corpses." Pragmatic and dark as ever, Corvo found it difficult to appreciate it in the moment. All he could do was suppress the shiver that threatened to knock the whiskey glass out of his hand and focus beyond all the dead, pale, faces with bleeding eyes that haunted his nightmares during the rare moments Jessamine's mangled body didn't fill his entire mind.

Havelock held his glass in loose, relaxed fingers, his demeanour conveying about as much gravity as if dinner had been served cold.

Pendleton didn't take it to heart. "The Admiral's right I'm afraid, Corvo, you did your job while the rest of us sat on our asses. Our work starts tomorrow." Corvo's work would never be over, not as long as Emily was still alive and he wasn't yet blank bones under the earth, but that was a distinction that would be pointless to try and explain to them, so Corvo didn't bother.

If anyone noticed Corvo spacing out more and more they didn't acknowledge it.

"Tonight, rest easy. Tomorrow we crown an Empress." Where Pendleton sounded mildly nervous, Havelock only portrayed grim determination, even when trying to be gentle. Like a soft breath brushing against the shell of his ear he could almost hear Jess mirthfully chuckling about how it was no wonder that he never found a wife.

A drop of whiskey dripped onto his hand,  warm and sticky, and it took him another few seconds to realize that his hand was shaking hard enough to spill it.

Havelock seemed to finally take pity on him and raised his glass in toast, eyebrows slightly more furrowed than before. "To Corvo! The man who served to change the course of history!" Corvo gazed down into his glass, whiskey lapping against the sides, rippling unevenly, and wondered just how much he'd really changed about this course of history. Not enough. Never enough. He'd never cared about such grand notions, he'd only ever served two people in his adult life. He'd failed both of them, and one died for it.

Martin's voice ripped him out of his head before his numbing fingers could lose grip on his glass entirely.

"To Emily Kaldwin, and the new dawn rising for the Empire." The man raised his glass and looked him straight in the eyes, something unreadable on his face. Corvo couldn't bring up the energy to care to try. Let the three have their grandiose ambitions for the night. All the damage they could do for now was to themselves if they wanted to get drunk on their prospects. Tomorrow would be enough to start wrangling them into something productive.

And until then... Until then, drinking to Emily was something he could agree to.

He raised his glass with them, as everyone else in the room echoed the toast. As everyone else started sipping the whiskey he simply threw it all back.

It was bad manners, and he almost thought- he almost thought he could feel the Heart pulse once, twice against his ribs. Jessamine would have scolded him for it.

His throat constricted and burnt. He blamed it on the whiskey.

Thankfully with this it seemed the others considered his contribution to be made. Pendleton and Havelock turned to each other, apparently continuing whatever conversation they'd been having before he returned. Something about reopening trade routes. Martin was the only one to give Corvo a short nod before directing his attention to the bar. What for when the man's glass was still nearly full, was anyone's guess but Corvo's, who was only glad to be off the hook.

Corvo cleared his throat and grimaced, the persistent ache only getting worse from the friction.

His fingers finally went numb enough he couldn't feel the glass anymore, and so he set it down on the bar counter, leaving a wet stain where his sleeve touched the wood. A few seconds of steeling himself and a deep, shaky breath later, he started making his way to the stairwell. No one paid him any mind, as it always had been.

Every creak of the old wooden boards beneath his boots made his head throb as if it was a pistol shot.

He'd just... He'd just check in on Emily again. Make sure she was alright and could sleep. And then he would go pass out on the bunk in the attic.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to force his foot to lift and step onto the stairs, and when he finally succeeded his ankle sent fire up his leg. Corvo hissed, and immediately regretted it when that too felt like it was ripping tears into his throat.

He barely managed three steps before the world suddenly tilted out from under him and he crashed into the wall, sending lightning arching through his limbs.

Once he reached the second floor, quietly panting and only not rubbing his new bruises because he couldn't dredge up the energy to lift his hands, he had to concede that he wouldn't be able to safely cross the bridge to Emily's little tower. Emily wouldn't... Wouldn't benefit from him tumbling off the bridge in a spell of exhausted dizziness and breaking his neck. She would be fine if he... If he went to sleep first.

He rounded the corner to the next staircase and had to stop to cling to the railing when his vision went white and he nearly started retching from the nausea. He tasted copper for his efforts. After a few moments he was able to tell up from down again and hauled himself further, one hand clutching the railing, despite his shoulder screaming at the angle. Better the needles in his neck, no matter how painful, than stumbling over his own two feet and falling when he couldn't be sure he'd be able to get up again afterwards.

His fingers spasmed against the wood.

By the third floor his breath only came in short, pained gasps, the hallway seemed to stretch to impossible length, and Corvo knew something was wrong. Even injured, tired, and wrung out as he was. He hadn't been this bad after Coldridge, or at any point in it. Getting shot in the chest during an attack on four year old Emily had been less crippling.

Someone was stabbing an arch pylon into his brain and melting it from the inside out.

He knew his limits, thought he knew his limits, and yet he was sweating like he'd run the entire way from the tower, while cold shivers wreaked his body. An infection was possible, likely even, but even that shouldn't have been able to take him apart so quickly. He should have... He should have had time...

By the fourth floor Corvo couldn't see the ground in front of himself anymore, stumbling along blindly by instinct alone. His hands  had gone entirely numb, felt alien to his body, like two blocks of icy granite strapped to the  burning bloodfly nest his flesh had become. Pain drowned him so thoroughly there was no thought of reasons anymore, only the all-consuming, burning agony that refused to release him, and the vague knowledge that he needed- he needed to get somewhere... Somewhere close... It was important, it was i-

A floorboard in front of the attic room was uneven.

Corvo's ankle rolled and his beaten, broken body gave out entirely. He fell with a thump he couldn't hear through the shock of agony slamming through him at the impact, taking all consciousness with it and blackness swallowed him in an almost blissful nothingness.

There was no waking for Corvo, only the awareness of agony twisting his insides, that may have been with him for an eternity, hours, minutes or seconds. Pressure started building in his chest, beyond the fire burning through his veins, building and building until something small blipped through the wall of torment encasing his mind. The need to *breathe*.

Almost against his will oxygen rushed into his lungs and doused them in flaming whale oil anew.

*He whimpered.*

A hand closed over his mouth. Another pressed against the side of his throat.

Despite the pain paralysing his limbs and smothering his thoughts there was just a bit of Corvo's mind left to panic at the touch. He wanted to *fight*, rip himself away from the hands threatening to take away his breath again, he needed to *get up*, *run*, **fight**, he had to-

He managed a weak twitch of the finger, a success immediately punished by excruciating agony pulsing through his core.

Any pathetic, crumpled sound he might have made was swallowed by the hand pressed onto his mouth.

After a moment, or an eternity, the hands hesitantly loosened. It did nothing to abate the agony, but even the effort to whimper seemed insurmountable. The faint light shining through his eyelids rammed a sword through his eyesockets.

The voice that suddenly cut through the suffocating blanket of torment, sharp and authoritative, replaced the burning fire in his chest with no less searing ice.

"Samuel, you move like you've been drinking. Did the poison work its magic? Is he dead?" The voice was- familiar. The agony allowed no concrete thoughts, no name to surface in his mind, but vague recognition made it through. Not that it made anything about this more comprehensible.

Another voice, nasally, nervous, and again familiar.

"It better have worked, it cost me a month's profit." No, that wasn't- It-

A wave of pain and nausea rolled over him, violently dragged him under and ripped into his organs, tearing at his flesh and bones and sinew until he wanted to scream.

As if sensing his terror and suffering the hand was back on his mouth, pressing him down with no hope to even twitch.

The next voice was much closer, gruff but soft and somehow much, much more painful.

"Yessir, I believe Corvo has breathed his last, just as you wanted." It sounded... almost directed at Corvo. Pointed. As if the voice wanted him to know. Was it... Was it true? Was he dead already? Because the voices... had wanted him to be? Was this agony his punishment for- for-

Something pulsed in his chest. Against his chest? Not pain, but... Grief?

No. No he couldn't- he couldn't be dead yet. There was- Emily. He couldn't die just yet, no matter what the voices wanted. And she- she wouldn't want him to. Deep in his bones, beneath pain and agony was the knowledge that *she* wouldn't want him to, even when he couldn't focus enough to remember her name.

If he wasn't dead then the voice was lying. Lying for him. Protecting him? That... Made sense and yet didn't.

Another surge of lightning through his veins and ripped the thought from his mind and straight into the void.

"You've done a fine job then." Somewhere, very, very deep in his mind, a well trained instinct had Corvo recognize the sentence as a threat and wanted to draw his blade. The vast majority of him battled to expand his lungs enough to draw in even a sliver of air.

"Remember, we need the body. If we come forward with the corpse of the man who murdered the Empress, we'll be greeted as heroes." The Emp- Jessamine. Jessamine, Emily, they wanted to- He had to-

The hand on his face pressed down, not nearly hard enough to break through the agony consuming everything else, but more than enough to pin him down.

"Yes, it'll grant us legitimacy. We'll be the men who rescued Emily and brought down the Lord Regent and his Assassin. You'll see to the body, won't you, Samuel?" The body... The body was him. Wasn't it.

How fitting that panic would be the thing to finally break through the blinding wall of pain, when it had been the only thing keeping him going the last six months. The- The Outsider had to be enjoying the irony.

Between his brain insisting that he should be running, fighting, battling his way out, his body shutting down more and more, and the hand pressed onto his mouth, the pressure in his chest was starting to mount again...

"Yessir." The voice came to him like through a tunnel, echoy and fuzzy, as his vision faded out, even as his heart was hammering in his chest, as if it was trying to stave off death just a moment longer.

When his brain next saw fit to grant Corvo a moment of consciousness his lungs were burning slightly less. Hands were tugging on him, pulling him... Up? After a moment, or two or three or perhaps a thousand, fighting the nausea and disorientation, he managed enough lucidity to notice that someone had heaved him into a sitting position, his back against the wall. It... Made breathing slightly easier.

Emboldened by his newfound at least partial clarity he attempted to pry his eyes open. His success was moderate, but with effort equivalent to climbing up the entire tower in the middle of winter he managed to gain some hazy vision from hooded eyes. Blurred colours and vague outlines only, but it was better than completely blind helplessness. Even if the sudden visual stimulation made his stomach roil and churn all the more.

The hands stopped pulling on him. Instead one pressed his shoulder against the wall while the other almost gently lifted his chin. The closeness made his skin crawl, and he felt the cold dampness of Coldridge seeping into his bones, but the mere act of forcing his eyes open had sapped his strength, leaving him helpless once again to any steel reinforced boots about to kick in his ribs.

"You back with me, Corvo?" A voice- Samuel's voice, right in front of him, while the vaguely brown blur in front of him moved slightly.

Corvo tried to answer, to agree, to ask what was happening, but instead only a tortured whine crawled up his throat.

The pressure on his shoulder softened a bit, not that it mattered. His veins were filled with fire, his bones with lead, and his skin was melting off his bubbling flesh.

"I'm sorry something terrible, Corvo. But I only gave you half the poison. They were watching me, and it was all I could think to do. I think you're strong enough to survive that." Half... Half the poison. Samuel poisoned him. The whiskey. Because the Loyalists forced him to. Because he had to die for their ambitions. And now Corvo was being boiled alive in his own blood.

His eyes grew hot and vision even more hazy, from something that had nothing to do with the poison. Air became scarce again as his throat closed up and shaky breath grew rapid.

His vision darkened as the pain rose to drown him again, even as he fought to stay conscious, to drag himself away from the brink that led to the sea of flaming whale oil raging through his body and mulching his insides. He couldn't- he couldn't give in, couldn't succumb, he had to- Emily...

Lightening shot through him once more, thoroughly dissolving the thought and didn't even do him the favour of cauterizing his nerves. Instead they were set alight in agony so all-consuming he would have been screaming had he had control over his body. Instead he went entirely slack, boneless, eyelids drooping over unfocused fever-bright eyes.

The hands briefly hesitated, before once again grabbing at him. The pressure through his body rose, dragged at him with the weight of a whale while the world swayed like a boat being tossed around the waves. After a few moments Corvo dimly recognized that Samuel had slung him partially over his shoulder and was carrying him... Somewhere.

As if the man had heard Corvo's disjointed rambling impressions Samuel started muttering again, quiet and strained and absent, as if he wasn't expecting Corvo to hear him anyway.

"I'll put you on a raft and then I've got to ship out myself before they find out I've gone against their wishes. Snakes. They'll want to do the same to me as soon as I've outlived my uses. Hopefully you'll wake up soon and find your way out of this cursed city." The thought of leaving, that Samuel thought he might leave, seemed so entirely nonsensical the mere notion  was quickly washed away by the next flare of nausea and pain.

Time passed at once like a lightning strike and as if it was being dragged through honey while he dangled off Samuel's shoulder. It wasn't entirely dissimilar to drifting through the void, except in the void he'd never felt pain. He didn't know if it simply was or if the Outsider made it so, but after Coldridge the Void provided the only escape from his never healing bruises and scrapes. ...And worse.

His eyes fell shut entirely somewhere along the way, though he had no way of telling if it was for seconds, minutes, hours or centuries. The only timeframe that mattered was the time in-between waves of agony pulsing through his being, ripping away what little sense he still had until only the pain remained.

Until a scream ripped through the mind-numbing pattern. A familiar scream.

Suddenly every reason why he couldn't simply hang here roared back into his mind with all the vengeance he'd failed to enact himself.

It was Emily's scream, the same as- as six months ago, desperate and scared.

Somehow, somewhere, in the abused mess of flesh and bones that still pretended to be his body he found another spark of energy, and with more violence than he'd managed to make himself commit against anyone else since his escape he forced it to the surface, pulled on his muscles to yank himself to his own feet. To Emily. To stop whatever had her screaming like this, to protect her from- from the situation he'd put her in. Again.

Retribution came immediately.

Agony surged through every fiber of his being and his muscles, stiff and unsuble just seconds before, started spasming without his control, every involuntary twitch cause of yet another lightning strike along his spine.

His vision whited out and consciousness fled from the unbearable onslaught before he could feel the shock of his body hitting the ground when Samuel failed to gently lower him down. Nor could he feel the boatman's frantic hands trying to save a condemned man from the death other men had decided for him, while his daughter, just around the corner, was once again dragged away from the body of her parent. Not the river's indifferent splashing, nor the leviathan's voice, unaging like the whale song, muttering to itself.

Emily's scream of terror echoed in his mind long after his daughter stopped screaming, replaced by silent tears as she sat in a corner, a boat, a locked room, and tried and failed to emulate the parents lost to her.

[solitaireships]

Charming

So in honor of me finishing Dis/honored. Here's a fic I wrote this past week about Corvo and my self insert, Astoria, meeting for the first time. I'm still trying to figure out how I want to write Corvo since he doesn't have much dialogue (only a couple things in some scenes to determine what choice to make), so until I play the second game, I'm just going off my own reading of him

Rating: Teen

Genre: Fluff

Words: 1756 words

Divider by saradika

Content warnings: mentions of plague, injury, a child being missing, and death

Despite everything, Astoria’s happy with the life she’s managed to put together for herself at the Hound Pits pub. It’s not the nicest place to live, but it’s better than having to be constantly on the run from people accusing her of witchcraft— though she has caught Havelock giving her looks from time to time as if he’s convinced she might try to put a curse on him. She couldn’t actually do that even if she wanted to, though. Regardless of what anyone says, she’s not actually a witch, she just knows how to make bone charms. But that may as well be witchcraft to the average citizen of Dunwall, even jumpier now than they were a year ago.

Still, Astoria’s safe here. Even if Havelock doesn’t seem to care for her work with bone charms, he’s not throwing her to the city watch, and that’s good enough for her. Instead he and the other Loyalists put her to work, having her piece together what charms she can and study them to figure out what they’ll do and if they might be able to help them. Her room is small, and a little cramped, but it’s better than nothing, and she’s able to spread out her tools for charm making without having to keep them hidden away. 

And, for the most part, she has more privacy now than she did living with her parents. Why they wouldn’t let her live independently is beyond her— she’s thirty years old, but still they insisted she should stay with them. No doubt because she hadn’t managed to marry herself off yet. Maybe if she had managed to find someone she could at least tolerate living with, her mother never would have dug through her room and found her bone charm collection. 

Astoria’s thoughts of what could have been are interrupted by a knock on her door. It’s unusual— usually she doesn’t have visitors to her room. But she gets up from her work desk, making her way to the door.

“Yes?” Astoria says, as she opens the door and takes in the sight of the person on the other side.

Astoria knows of Corvo. Most people in Dunwall do. The empress’s royal protector turned assassin, though Astoria never fully believed that last part. She was never a part of high society, but still the relationship between Corvo and Empress Jessamine was a subject for gossip, with many noting their close relationship and how the empress’s daughter, Emily, has eyes that look suspiciously similar to his. Nothing has ever been proven, but people tend to wonder about how could have been the young girl's father.

Astoria’s sure he misses the girl. They’re trying to find Emily to restore her right to the throne, but it’s probably not just about that for Corvo. Her loss of her own family is different from what he went through— at least she’ll be able to hold out the hope she’ll get to see them again one day. He might be able to find Emily, but the empress is buried and gone. There’s no chance of a reunion with her.

“Lady Fortunato,” Corvo greets. 

“You don’t need to be formal. Just Astoria is fine,” she replies. Besides, it’s not like she was ever called Lady Fortunato before. Her family did well for themselves, but certainly not the the level of such a title being warranted.

“Piero said that you might know more about this,” Corvo says, cutting right to the point as he fishes something out of his pocket.

“Oh, a bone charm!” She nods towards her desk, where bits of bone, twine, and beads are organized. “Yeah, I know a bit about them.”

“Then you can tell me what this does?” he says, half question and half statement. 

“If you let me take a closer look.”

Corvo offers her the charm. Astoria turns it over in her hands, making her way back over to the desk. He follows behind her, looking over her shoulder as she examines the marks carved into the bones. 

There’s a pattern to making bone charms. It’s mostly been lost to time— that or instructions about how to make them have been locked away and banned by the High Overseer's office. But Astoria has managed to teach herself how to figure out what the placement of the bones mean, what each etched mark into the bones means, how every knotted bit of twine binding them together shows what the charm’s purpose is. 

“This one’s a healing charm,” Astoria determines after a moment of study. “It’ll make it so eating can help speed up the healing process and relieve some pain. Of course eating still won’t be as helpful as using elixir, but it should help in a pinch.”

“Hmm.”

Corvo doesn’t seem to be a man of many words. It’s something that Astoria can normally appreciate. She’s not the most talkative even on the best days— the only times where she can get herself to talk more are when it’s about something she’s interested in, like bone charms. 

But now she does wish that Corvo would say a little more. She can never tell what people are thinking about her, and it’s even harder to tell with him. A good quality for a royal protector to have, but nonetheless one that can be intimidating. Especially with how he seems to loom over everyone— even if Astoria were taller than she is, she’d still have to look up to meet his eyes. 

He is rather handsome, though. In a scruffy way that’s no doubt a result of the months he spent in prison. She doesn’t remember his hair being quite so long before then, or hearing anything about messy stubble along his jaw. But he has pretty brown eyes that make it easy for her to imagine why the empress would have wanted to keep him by her side.

Astoria reminds herself that having such thoughts about a man she hardly knows is inappropriate, especially when he’s no doubt still grieving. She clears her throat, offering the charm back to him. 

“If you find any other charms, you can always bring them by and I can help you figure out what they are. Sometimes charms can get corrupted too if someone breaks one to change around, and those charms can have some pretty unpleasant side effects to use often. So I can at least help you figure out what downsides there might be to using those,” Astoria says. 

“I appreciate it,” Corvo says. 

When he takes the charm from her, Astoria notices the mark on the back of his left hand. She can immediately recognize the mark of the Outsider— it’s similar to the marks that she carves into her charms, with their magic drawing from that of the dark-eyed god. She wonders where he would have gotten a mark like that. Worshiping the Outsider is considered heresy, and she doubts he would have gotten away with so brazenly following him when so deeply embroiled in the politics of Gristol. Perhaps it’s another change that’s fallen upon him since his time in Coldridge Prison. 

“You might want to cover that mark on your hand, by the way,” Astoria says. “I know you’re not going around in many circles where people might see that mark as a problem, but still. It’s better to not get accused of witchcraft along with everything else you’re doing.”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” Corvo replies.

“Good. I want you to stay safe.”

“I will,” he says with a nod. “I’ll leave you to your business now.”

“Oh, wait,” Astoria says. She goes to her desk, searching through the drawers before her eyes land on the charm she’s looking for. She takes it from the desk, offering it to Corvo. “Here. This might help you.”

“What does it do?” he asks, looking at it as if he’s trying to figure it out on his own.

“I’d keep it somewhere where you can touch it easily. It gets warm when there’s danger nearby,” she explains.

“Huh.”

“I know you’re probably in a lot of danger as is, so I don’t know how much it’ll tell you things you don’t already know. But I don’t know. Maybe it’ll make it a little less likely for you to be caught by surprise,” Astoria says. 

And it’s not as if she needs it anymore. It was helpful back when she was terrified of catching the plague, and it was helpful when she was hiding from the city watch. But now that she’s in the relative safety of the Hound Pits, she doesn’t need to constantly watch her back. Corvo, however, will need to as he seeks out his targets and Emily. 

“It’ll help. Thanks,” Corvo says. He takes the charm, fingers brushing against her own as he does. 

“Of course. And remember, if you need any help with anything else bone charm related, just let me know. I’m working on making some other ones, so maybe I’ll be able to put something else together that you can use,” Astoria says.

“Then I’ll make sure to bring coin next time.”

“You don’t need to,” she replies, though it certainly would help her to get more supplies for making them. “I’m just doing my part to help make things right after everything that’s happened.”

“You still deserve to be paid for your services,” Corvo replies. 

“I get by fine.”

“You’ll get by better if you don’t refuse to get money for your work.”

Astoria frowns. She’s stubborn, but she can also recognize when there’s no point in arguing with someone. “Only for any charms I give you, then. It’s not that hard to figure out what the charms do.”

“Whatever you say,” Corvo says. He starts towards the door. “Be careful.”

“I should be saying that to you,” is the last Astoria manages to say before he leaves her room. 

Corvo’s an interesting man. It’s still hard for Astoria to know exactly what she makes of him. But she does hope regardless that he’ll stay safe. The fate of the empire hinges on him, and she can’t deny that the mark of the Outsider on his hand has only piqued her interest in him more. 

Astoria sighs, looking back to her desk. She should get back to work. After all, she may not be able to go to help Corvo while he’s out neutralizing whatever targets Havelock and the others throw at him, but she does have her own ways she can contribute.

[presiding]

cecelia looks a lot like billie’s lost love.

art by @yufiit commissioned for the ghosts of the hound pits' pub because dishonored needs some haunted yuri.

[no-light-left-on]

there is a copy of Young Prince of Tyvia in the Hound Pits Pub bathroom on the bookshelf right by the tub