The first images are older pics, the sketches are me trying to figure out a way to stylize her.
I started Rogue Trader as Silencio von Valancius, but stopped playing for like half a year because I felt like I wasn't getting the mechanics at all, doing so little damage and not hitting anything, and it was only the beginning of the game, haha
Then made Arwo von Valancius I've posted here before - Did the sniper build for him and loved it! Decided to do my first playthrough playing as him. Also because I wanted to check the Marazhai's sub route first, so I would know what kind of forces Silencio would be putting under her boot.
She's a void born with respectable amount of muscle and a destroyed voice box (couldn't find a suitable voice for her from the available options). She's a soldier, because I didn't know how the "classes" - or anything else - worked when I started the game as this 40k newbie.
I've not made up mind about if she has some sort of primitive text-to-speech like voice (maximizing the annoyance for Marazhai), if she is able to produce any sound at all, or if she's able to have some decent voice box bionic after becoming a Rogue Trader.
The strongest guy in the Magnus Archives is that one guy who was so obsessed with his dog that he just walked right out of the Spiral because it was her dinnertime
This is one of my favorite episodes. Fears can't hurt you if you're chill enough. The guy who walked in a spiral for four hours and then just left because he remembered he had somewhere to be is, to me, the avatar of the entities' fear
AND he didn’t even realize evil taxidermy was at play for the longest time because he came in like “I love and respect autistic people, of course I’m not judging eye contact”
we CANNOT forget the woman that was actively being swallowed by the buried and when there was nothing she could possibly do she lied down on the ground and accepted her fate so thoroughly and with such calm that it had to barf her back up.
The lady who survived an encounter by going along with it and for at LEAST 24 hours just...joined in carrying armfuls of meat to the giant meat hole and dumping it in.
But yeah, dog walk guy is the strongest. So oblivious he barely realized anything had happened. I love him.
Fandom: Dishonored
Relationships: Daud and the Whalers, Daud/Outsider
Rated: Mature to Explicit, Strong Violence and Gore Ahead!!
Synopsis: Werewolf!AU :: Daud-Centric Prequel to Wolfbann. Origin Story, pre-canon. Centers on how Daud turned, and his subsequent marking by the Outsider and his formulation of the Whalers.
Content Warnings for this chapter: TW for attempted sexual assault. Body worship involving organs and entrails.
Notes: He is untouchable. He is powerful. He is alone. Or at least... he thinks he wants to be.
AO3 Link
Previous :: First :: Next
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Dunwall
Month of Songs, 1820
“Where is he?”
“...”
“Rulfio?”
“Like I know.”
“He's not… dead, is he?”
“No, he's not. He just…”
“Then where in the Void is he, Rulfio?”
“Damnit Jordan! I'm not Daud's keeper and I never have been! That man— that beast— disappeared in front of my eyes. Left a damned mess behind, but nothing the river won't eventually wash away.”
“So he's just…”
“I don't know. Gone. Maybe he'll turn up. I told him to fuck off and—”
“Oh Rulf, you didn't.”
“What else was I supposed to say, Jordan? I didn't want him near me! I didn't want to die! You saw him, saw those other monsters…”
“So what, you tell him to fuck off and you really think he'll just turn up?”
“...Yes. Eventually. I thought him dead once and he just turned up one day with a fucked up face and puss filled throat. He's not a whelp, if he can survive that, then he’ll figure it out.”
“...Yeah…”
“What? Jordan, I don't like that look.”
“It's just…”
There's the sound of a lighter flicking open and on, a long draw and the following exhale.
“Tell it to me straight, Rulf. Be nothing but honest with me. Do you think that thing even is Daud? Or do you think something else crawled out of that sewer, wearing his skin and is just trying to fool us all?”
A scoff, but Jordan was fast to interrupt.
“I'm so fucking serious right now. I ain't that old but I've seen some shit and I've never seen what I just saw. I don't even know if I believe it. Maybe I dreamt it.”
“No, no, Jordan. I saw it too. It really happened. There's evidence, even.”
“... So?”
“So, what?”
“Don't make me repeat myself, Rulf.”
The silence stretched, filling the space between the two assassins. A shift, a grunt, a scratch against beard hair.
“I don't know, Jordan. Maybe Daud really did die and I'm just next on the chopping block. But I have to believe in him, I have to believe my friend is in there. Otherwise, why would he even leave me alive? He could've just offed me then and there and he didn't. That has to count for something.”
Another grunt, another shift. Jordan stood up, waiting on the precipice.
“I hope you're right, Rulfio. Because otherwise, I don't know how to kill a beast like that except with another monster. And I don't know how to find one of those and I'm not keen on looking right now.”
There's a small sound of wind as she leapt from the building, leaving the older man to watch the sun set on his own, smelling like a sewer and with too many thoughts swimming like hagfish in his mind.
------
???
Month of Songs, 1820
“You led me into a trap.”
“I led you, dear Daud, to where you needed to be. You needed to see what you were dealing with.”
“And my coworkers? My friends? They didn't need to see that. They didn't need to see me.”
“And yet, isn't it you that said you hate to lie to them? What would you have rather done: kept them in the dark, knowing nothing, your new nature destroying them? It still may, Daud, if you do not reign it in and put your head on straight.”
“Enough with the riddles, speak plainly and stop threatening them. It's bad enough that this Mark does nothing to control whatever I am, whatever keeps happening to me.”
Cool hands hold Daud's face, washing over him like the slow lull of the tide. Unbidden his eyes slid closed; those fingers searched, outlining his scars, tracing his neck. His next inhale was stuttered against the ministrations.
“What is happening to you is one of the most beautiful things to behold, my dear Daud,” the Outsider cooed to him, voice deep as water and as reassuring as drowning. “Like a moth, you've barely come out of your chrysalis, with no understanding how to unfold your wings. How could you yet know the color of those scales, when they haven't even fully formed yet? You still need the time to relax and stretch.”
Hands wandered further; with eyes still closed it felt as if those hands doubled, tripled. The soothing embrace of water surrounded him, buoying Daud in a sensation he's never experienced before. Arms wrapped around him fully, fingers teasing and wanton and pleading. He let his head fall, his neck open and vulnerable, floating in the Void. Chilling, ghostly lips kissed at his scars and he could feel his whole body groan in response.
All at once, those fingers dug into him, growing sharp. Nails clawing and tugging against the meat of his body until his skin was ripping off, the Void pouring out of him from underneath. Daud grunted, body jerking, but those hands kept him in place, the lips on his throat morphing into teeth like knives, gracing his skin and holding him hostage. He choked, eyes opening back up to look for the culprit of this attack on his body.
All he found was Void-Black eyes too close to his, swimming in the abyss of stone pouring from every slice of his burst skin.
“Easy now, Daud. Just let it happen. Let yourself become.”
Become? Daud's mind reeled. Didn't he already do that? Wasn't he already something? He growled deep but it came out wrong, different, his whole chest rolling with the sound. His mouth opened up and he roared, the whale-song dripping from his lips and teeth as Void poured out. His Mark burned as more of his skin sloughed off, leaving black underneath. The Outsider smiled, those obsidian eyes glittering, fervent, as the man named Daud fell apart at the literal seams.
Daud could barely see, could barely think, but he knew, he knew, he couldn't let his sense of self be lost in the cacophony of the storm, of the whales screaming and screeching and dying. He wasn't dying; he was alive, his body burning with Void magic, cloaked in fur and muscle and teeth. A god may have created him, but that god wasn't him. He made himself. He will become on his own terms.
Claws tear through the arms wrapping around him, slicing through the dark water, creating ripples, his teeth bared and his scars glowing like a hot coil across his face. A huge furred hand found a thin neck, squeezing, both enticed and egged on by that smiling, unfazed face. Fangs bared but it's all for show; the Outsider simply brings a pale hand up, running fingers through fur, across lips and nose and teeth and Daud all but purred under those swift movements.
“That's better,” that silky voice encouraged. “Keep that defiance, my Daud. Keep me guessing what you'll do next. You've always been unable to be contained or controlled… Do try your best to not let that streak be broken, will you?”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Daud argued back, his fur bristling as he sensed the threat underneath those debonair words. No answer was forthcoming, just an easy smile that was as inviting as it was unsettling.
“Learn all you can, my beautiful Daud. Find me if you're lost, or if you'd simply like to ‘chat’ like this again. You can find me everywhere, if you know where to look. And I know you will, you are oh so curious after all…”
The Outsider leaned forward, lips gracing Daud's long ears. He longed to bite that small body, sink his teeth in, but instinct told him it was folly, that the body was merely a vessel for something more, that he could never hope to beat.
“Until we speak again, Wolf of Dunwall.”
The ocean filled his ears as he broke the surface, coming back to reality. He gasped like a fish, still in the kneeling position he took when he found the shrine in the sewers just outside the ampitheatre. His arms shook from exertion, still covered in blood and currently appearing human despite the rampage his wolf form just took. He let out a ragged breath and stood, debating on getting any wounds checked over, realizing belatedly they had all healed already, leaving no stories to tell.
He looked at the shrine, now so inert despite how it had called to him just moments before he took the plunge into the Void. A frown pulled at his scars, the touch from the Outsider lingering all over his skin and on his thoughts.
Become. Such a vague command. His teeth grew too long as he finally turned away, letting the Void pull him away and out and over the rooftops. As if he could move fast enough and far enough away, he could leave his destruction far behind and buried.
A shower and laundering first. He could worry about becoming anything later.
-----
Dunwall
Fugue Feast, in the Time Between 1820 and 1821
Rulfio climbed up to the rooftop, body swaying dangerously, the action far more laborious thanks to the wine bottle in his hand and the spirits in his system. Still, as unsteady as he was, he pulled himself upright, grunting in annoyance the whole time. The hot sun blazed on the horizon as it set, half blinding him as he searched for the spot he was looking for.
It didn't take long; he found the dead potted plant, almost missing the small fabric purse sitting next to it. Even under his beard, Rulfio's frown was deep.
“Fuckin’ Outsider’s ass—” the curses tumbled out of his mouth, one after another, but he approached the pouch all the same. Lifting it, he felt the weight of the coin inside and didn't even think to visually check and count.
It wasn't like it was his coin to earn, after all. Just given to him, like some weird charity. His teeth ground down in his cheek, the noise filling his ears and reverberating in his head.
“Come on out already,” he growled. “This is ridiculous.” Nobody replied, of course. Only the sound of the festivities down below, the Fugue of the year reaching its crescendo as nobles and commoners alike celebrated their freedom of consequence for just a little longer.
Rulfio tried again anyway, his voice taking on a desperate edge.
“Daud, come on,” the words break but he kept them coming. “I know it's you, you make yourself real obvious when you want to be. When I said fuck off I didn't mean for weeks. Can't you just face me without being a creep about it, leaving behind evidence that you've been taking jobs? And I get it,” he held the bag up, shaking it vigorously. “You're even more lucrative now! Being a giant magic monster makes it easier than ever to hit your targets! But I don't care about the money!”
The bag dropped, his gaze with it. There's a prickle at the back of his neck and he’s tempted to toss the coin off the roof, let some has-been in the street find it to make their day lucky. Instead Rulfio half-heartedly looked around, hoping to see a scarred face, while knowing full well that if Daud was there and didn't want to be seen, he wouldn't be. So he just sighed, a ragged thing, and took a swig from the bottle.
As graceful as a hauled out walrus, Rulfio collapsed, back against the familiar chimney, his brain thinking back to the hit that started this whole debacle not even two months ago. How much had changed, figuratively and literally. He was used to seeing Daud at least once every few days, now he hadn't seen the man since the sewer incident. Rulfio had wondered since then who that other man was, the one he had popped lead into, if he had powers too, if there were other monsters, if Daud was looking for them…
Maybe it was best he didn't know what the man-turned-beast was up to.
The clock ticked. Only a few more hours until next year, by Rulfio's calculations. He tried again, voice tired.
“So you won't show yourself. That's fine, ‘cause I have a feelin’ you're listening anyway. Honestly, I don't know what I expected, coming up here. I think I just had a delusion that you'd show up while we're still outside of time, just to let me know your ugly ass is still doing alright.”
The wind turned cold, for a moment, a breath of something on the breeze. Rulfio felt that same prickle again, something like sadness seeping into his bones, and he knew it wasn't his. He scrambled back up to his feet, bleary eyes searching wildly; he could have sworn— he just saw—
Across the buildings, too far to make out, a dark figure stood.
Rulfio shouted. A crowd erupted and gunshots went off, three in a row right into the sky. Balloons freed from their confinement filled the sky as people laughed in the streets, all of it obscuring his vision. He ran forward, tripping, stumbling to the edge; by the time the balloons had floated away, the figure was gone.
Rulfio bit back the sob in his throat and hid his face behind a hand.
-----
Dunwall, Rudshore District
Month of Harvest, 1821
The cool winds of autumn fought against the heat rolling off the streets below, buoyed by the stagnant industrial air of the refinery and its endless processing. Daud hovered above it all, his nose filled with the acrid smell of whale oil, but even then he breathed deep, eyes shining bright in the darkness.
He wasn't here for a hit. Not that he couldn't have taken one, just to fill the time. But for now, he needed to focus. This one, as much as he hated to admit it, was personal.
His long blade swept up behind his right arm, thumb idly running against the knick in the metal. His free hand gleamed and smoked; underneath him, the world exposed its secrets to him at his command. Lines of scent trails to follow, and further down, a pile of chittering, singing runes. Five of them laid bare, four stories below him, untouched. He made no move towards their Voidsong call but instead watched the pile, waiting.
It was a trap, the carved runes the bait. And if his calculations were correct, it was due to spring soon.
All he had to do was wait, watch, and be patient.
He needn't wait long; over the strong scent of whale oil and fire and smoke, the smell of another arose. Daud felt the fur ripple down his back and did nothing to suppress it back down.
A form swam into view; it was a man, hobbling and unsure, almost appearing drunken, or perhaps high. The call of so many carved runes was pulling the sorry individual like a siren, body lurching against his will, his fevered senses honing in on such a sickly sweet prize.
A wandering mind tried burrowing its way into his thoughts and it was then that Daud stiffened in anger. His grip tightened, everything coiling like a spring. The lurching man disappeared to grab for the whalebone and Daud couldn't wait any longer.
In a flurry of ash, he was gone. Perch to perch, he sped towards the ground, whaler knife glinting as he went. His prey was inside the refinery; Daud had chosen an old utility closet for his makeshift shrine, one that was already old and abandoned, filled with chemicals and cleaning supplies. Unassuming, it was on the second floor where the office workers mingled, all gone home now that night had fallen. From the top of the shadowed filing cabinets, he watched the man through the void once more as he calculated his assault.
The man was gesticulating, body arching in the throes of some kind of fit. So close to the closet, Daud's nose was filled with a fetid smell, one of infection and putrid flesh, one he was all too familiar with. His lip curled nastily, hatred bubbling up hot and unwanted.
This man— this thing— needed to die.
Physically his boots were on the ground, beginning his approach. Mentally, he found the man through that psychic tapestry, yellowed and sick, and slammed against his mind as hard as possible. Through the Void he watched him crumple; in his ears he heard a pained scream. Daud's lips rolled back and he pressed harder, suffocating the man with sheer mental power alone, lashing at his mind. He needed to beat the man down fast, because if he didn't—
There was another whine, and then a groan. And then a snarl.
The sounds were not coming from him. Daud cursed under his breath and broke into a run, claws smoking into view, his knife out and ready.
He recoiled his mind just in time to feel it heave against him, throwing him out regardless of if he wanted to be ejected or not. From the closet there was a splintering of wood; Daud transversed up above the doorway, face morphing into something wolflike, even as the whole wall heaved, groaned and lurched.
Then the wall burst apart entirely as the newly formed whale-wolf exploded from its trap. Daud jumped, teeth flashing, and braced for the mental and physical assault that was about to befall him.
He was Daud's first— and hopefully last—accident.
Daud had been sloppy, hadn't watched himself during a recent hit. The assassination had been easy but someone had caught him, got in the way— a watch guard, he vaguely recalled. Someone who thought he was being a Void-damned hero. Daud's strike was assured until the idiot jumped in, taking the slash to his side instead of the target. Daud redirected, furious, pushing aside the intruder, but his quarry had run.
And in his idiocy, he had chosen the assassination target over the man still alive and bleeding from where his claws had gouged his skin. When Daud went back and looked for him, he was gone.
But now he was here. Daud had spent twenty long days tracking that sorry son of a bitch down, feverish in his search, hoping, praying he could get to them before…
Last week, he had found him. And every day after that, he had carved and carved, building the trap, and he had come exactly when Daud knew he would, called by the Void, and now had transformed before he could kill him. There was a very strong chance the sorry soul wouldn't survive the pain and would die on his own.
(Daud wasn't taking that chance).
The Turned whale-wolf collapsed, body heaving and mouth garbled. Daud lithely landed in front of the monstrosity and paused, taking in the scene in front of him. His nose curled and ice-cold fear hit him as he faced the consequence of his own incompetency.
The man was a steaming, heaving mess of too-long limbs and bubbling flesh. Daud watched horrified; there was no way his first transformation was this… disgusting. The man's eyes rolled, his teeth clashed and his screams sounded like razor blades. The poisoned mind thundered in his, incomprehensible. Daud, rattled from the sensation, waited for the moment when he could push back, overwhelm, silence.
Unlike Jerome, there were no words; this man's sense of self was gone before his body was. Like Jerome, this other mind filled him with blinding white rage. He expelled it outwards, body growing and fangs lengthening.
“You don't deserve this,” He snarled into the other's mind, a thunderous presence that immediately cowed the sick wolf under him. The man turned wolf thrashed and fought but Daud was still larger, still stronger. He was the Wolf of Dunwall.
And the Wolf of Dunwall doesn't make mistakes.
The fight was bloody quick. The Turned wolf had so little to give, so little life, that a few parries and a swift bite through the neck was enough to end his suffering. The rage didn't leave Daud entirely, however; he burned with it, burned with hatred for himself and the thing between his jaws.
Never again, he told himself, as he disposed of the body in the high heat vats of bright blue oil.
“They get in my way,” he growled, watching the body dissolve. “They will all die too.”
By morning, all evidence of the attack was gone. Greaves Refinery simply reported on an overnight explosion in a closet with no casualties or injuries reported.
-----
Dunwall, The Academy of Natural Philosophy
Month of Ice, 1821
“I don't think I've seen you in the Academy before.”
He looked up to whoever was speaking to him, only mildly startled. He was amazed that anyone even noticed him, hiding behind mountains of books; he hadn't spoken to another soul directly in the three months he had been here, outside of a few professors or even more seldomly, a librarian.
This girl couldn't be more than eighteen. When his steely eyes and sharp scars reached her eyes, he watched her face visibly heat.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to be a bother,” she squeaked, clearly intimidated. That sobered Daud; for the sake of pretenses he stepped away from the table and moved a stack of books.
“The apology is mine. I didn't mean to look so… severe.” With the books moved he motioned for her to sit. Her face still burning all the way up to her ears, she obliged and found the chair, relieving herself of her own stack of heavy tomes. She glanced over the covers of the books he had chosen with an appraising eye.
Daud watched carefully, and, with a swallow and a carefully averted eye, he gently probed her mind. Soft teal and a throughline of pinks and golds. Like a spring meadow.
Her intentions were innocent, unlike some of the minds in this place. He eased, looking back up, searching her face. Aside from being unable to meet his concentrated gaze, she seemed unaffected, to which he eased even more.
“What are you studying?” Her voice is soft due to the nature of the library setting but Daud also couldn't help but think her voice was just like that. Small. A timid thing. A mouse in a den of wolves.
His jaw worked but he was able to make the smile look genuine.
“If you can believe it, folktales,” he murmured back. Then, a shrug. “Along with some anatomy. I'm looking for connections between the stories we pass down, orally or written, and the world we live in, seeing where there is truth in the fiction.”
He felt more than heard her small “oh!” and she pulled out a book of her own; old and fraying and smelling of ancient paper, it was a collection of Gristolan fairy tales.
“This is an illustrated manuscript, if you would be interested in perusing. I am working on perfecting the style, to recreate it and hopefully preserve its contents.”
She handed it to Daud; his eyebrows raised in interest, flicking through the pages. The words were old Gristolan, the drawings faded amongst the passages, the filigree around the border still vivid with color and ink.
“Do you have a favorite story?” He asked, curious for her response.
“Oh of course. The Fox and the Frog, a classic from my home in Potterstead.” She tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear and Daud smiled subtly enough for her cheeks to flush again. “Wh—what about you?”
“I'm from Serkonos, where we have more fairy tales than I can count,” he grinned more, toothy. “But I was always fond of the stories of Wolfbanner. Whale-wolves, huge monsters walking on land.”
“The Outsider’s monsters?” She asked, and he nodded.
“I had heard tales of whales walking on land in Pandyssia and I couldn't help but wonder if there was a connection between those beasts and those old stories. It's become a bit of an obsession, and what better place to study it than the Academy?”
The girl shuddered. “I hope you find your answers, but truthfully, I hope more that you are wrong in them being real. Those stories scared me the most.”
“Oh?” She nodded, flicking through a book to keep her fingers occupied.
“I was raised to always fear the Outsider, and anything related to him. My mother used those stories to keep us from running into the hills after dark. We thought it nonsense until we heard things that we ain't never heard before, and not since.”
“What did it sound like?” Daud asked, words far too breathless.
“Like screaming whales.”
He resisted the urge to sift through her memories, to dredge up something for himself that she clearly didn't want to share. The last time he had tried that trick, he had sent someone into a panic attack.
Instead his mouth quirked, and a small laugh escaped him. He hoped his teeth didn't show too much. “Well, that's probably just mountain cats then. I think wolves howl, not scream.”
“Probably,” she agreed, looking more than relieved. “I'm Lune, by the way.”
Daud barked a laugh so loud the librarian at the back of the huge room shushed him. Her cheeks flushed again, this time in anger and embarrassment than anything else. He quickly understood his transgression and he gave her book back with a bowed head in apology.
“I apologize,” he chuckled, “It was just so ironic, to be scared of wolves and named after the moon they love so much.”
“Well, not all wolves are scary,” she countered, grinning despite herself. “Just the magical kind.”
She took the book back. His hand remained outstretched, looking for hers to shake.
“I'm Flint, by the way.”
“Flint,” Lune smiled, taking his hand in hers. “Thank you for the wonderful chat.”
He nodded, smile easy. Her mind was even more bright now, an infectious comfort. A bell rang and she started, gathering her things and muttering apologies as she ran off. Daud followed her tendril of a mind as it escaped into the crowd, a star in a sea of roiling muted greens, greys, blacks and reds.
The further away she got, the more his scowl reappeared. At the back of his mind, something like anxiety grew. There was too much movement to know what it was, but the thrill didn't leave him.
He was hoping this wouldn't be a shitty birthday.
-------
Lune bundled up against the cold, night long past fallen as she hurried across campus. Her knapsack was heavy with supplies, her arms still filled with the books she carried out of the library. She couldn't get Flint out of her mind; there was something electric about him, something she had never seen in the eyes of anyone else. It was like he was sharp all over, all his edges planed out with a straightedge, as if she would get stuck and bleed if she got too close.
And yet when he smiled, his whole face lit up; even his scars seemed to melt away. And what scars they were, terrifying yet intriguing. Like she could run a hand down the ridge and still never find the end.
She felt her cheeks flush; it wasn't like her to be so caught up in a stranger, and certainly one not so tall and dark and handsome. It's almost stereotypical, being so flushed for a random person she just met. Like a penny romance novel she'd pick up from the bargain bin of a backwater bookstore. A fantasy man interested in fantasies himself.
But still, his laugh was clear. And he had warm, rough hands.
Rougher hands grabbed at her from the dark. She squeaked in surprise, then it morphed into a scream of fear, one that another hand clamped over her mouth. Dirty hands, smelling of turpentine and ink and she struggled, tossing, fear lancing into her.
“Chill out Lune, or everyone will hear you,” the first voice snickered and her heart froze over. Dustin, from her life drawing class, was looming over her, but his eyes weren't friendly, nor was his gaze kind. He saw the look on her face and he laughed. It wasn't clear.
It sounded like a jackal.
A second set of hands ripped the books out of her arms, tearing the knapsack away, pilfering her things. She screeched in protest, tried to bite at the hand in her mouth, tears forming in her eyes. It was another student, Frederick, going through her stuff.
But why? Why?
Dustin's dirty hands pulled at her jacket and the vest underneath, searching for her chest. She struggled and he pushed her against his hips; her mind froze over as her question was answered for her.
Spirits. Her classmates were going to rape her. Tears welled up, unbidden, and she closed her eyes against the oncoming onslaught.
“Come on, Lune, you can't tease me all day and then leave a man wanting—”
There was a spike of anger that lanced through her body that felt wholly foreign and left her feeling lightheaded. Then, a breath of wind, the sound of feet hitting the ground, and a growl that rippled down her spine. She smelled smoke and then, suddenly—
She was free.
Lune opened her eyes and blinked; it was too dark to see anything, but she heard the yelp, could see some kind of struggle, then a howl of pain.
Lune looked towards the shadows, too scared to move. As her eyes adjusted, the silhouettes in the dark became clear.
Flint was holding Dustin against the wall, arm twisted against his back. A dark lump was crumpled on the floor; Lune realized it was Dustin's friend.
He wasn't moving.
Flint's eyes burned in the dark, filled with more anger than she ever thought someone could. Gone was the kindness, replaced with an inferno of icy hot rage.
“Give me one good reason to not cut your hands off right now,” he growled, and the sound was inhuman.
Dustin began blabbering, shining tears on his face. Flint pressed his body into the wall roughly, and there was a loud crack. Dustin crumpled, whimpering in pain.
Flint stood. He turned those burning blue eyes to her.
Lune stayed rooted to the spot, even as relief washed over her mind in soothing waves. As Flint neared he entered the light, his features softened from the predator she just saw to something kind yet again. He checked her over, grabbing her bag and handing it to her.
“Are you okay?”
Lune gaped at him.
“How did you do that?”
His eyes averted. “That didn't answer my question.”
“I'm fine,” she whispered out. “Thank you.”
Flint caught her eye again and she shuddered under the absolute focus. His eyes searched hers and that same kindness filled her yet again.
“They won't bother you anymore,” he said, eyes flicking to the men he had subdued in seconds. The words sound thick in his mouth and she doesn't know why. “I made sure of it.”
“Why did you save me?” she squeaked. He gave her a long, incredibly painful look, and she wilted under it. He looked away, as if ashamed.
“I had a feeling,” he supplied, as if it was really that simple. From somewhere on his belt, faster than she could see, he pulled a knife, holding it out to her. It was sheathed, and small enough that she could keep it on her person.
When she didn't move to take it he insisted, his gloved palms warm where they touched hers, depositing the cold steel.
“There are more dangerous men than kind ones here at the Academy,” he told her. “They will try to bite you. Do not be afraid to bite back.”
She looked down at the simple knife, holding it close like it was a lifeline. She nodded, understanding. His hand squeezed her shoulder and she looked up to find his ice eyes again. But whatever emotion they held, she couldn't tell. There was a wall there, erected around a delicate core.
“You won't see me again,” he murmured out, and something in her heart broke. “So keep the knife and stay safe, for me.”
“Where will you go?” She asked, still feeling lightheaded, still feeling less like a real person and more like a complete novel cliché.
His emotions flickered too fast to read.
“To find wolves.”
And then, in a rush of ash and smoke, he was gone.
A week later, someone else tried to bite her. She bit back, and didn't stop.
Nobody bothered Lune again after that.
------
Dunwall
Month of Seeds, 1821
Despite the bone-deep cold, Daud was feverish.
He groaned and the sound came out like whalesong, dripping with Void, causing the world around him to quiver. The Leviathan caressing his body just smiled, obsidian eyes watching him and seeing far too much.
“You seek me out in such beautiful fashion, Daud.” Those honey-sweet words dripped into his ears, filling him with heat as his body lurched, reacting unbidden. He keened, his back arching, and as the Outsider ran his hands down Daud's bare chest, his ribs cracked and opened and sang. “But I can't help but get the suspicion that this is done… as an indulgence.”
Oh, he was indulging, alright. Laid completely bare, his body unzipped, his organs on full display. He could hear his own marrow hissing with the patterns of the Void being etched there, as if anyone could take a piece of his spine and forge it into a bonecharm. The Outsider lifted Daud's intestines to his face in reverence and Daud groaned like the wood of a ship against the rocky shores.
“I thought…” he struggled with the words, as his teeth ached in his jaw with every attempt. “Since when do gods… worship humans?”
The Outsider kissed the guts in his palm and Daud could feel the ice fill him with every touch. Then the Outsider kissed his liver, his stomach, his diaphragm. His lungs. Palms encircled his heart and the Void burned through him.
“Oh Daud,” the Outsider said, breathless. “You are not just a human anymore… you are my masterpiece.”
The heart was squeezed and arousal spiked through him. His back bowed beautifully and the monster, the wolf of him sprung forth, rippling down his back and limbs, head to tail, and he howled. His body twisted, squelched, ribs springing back into place, his mass thrusting itself forward, growing, and the feeling was ecstasy. He snarled, body too hot, too cold, too everything and he flew forward, jaws wide, aimed straight for the god who he hated so much.
Long fingers squeezed against his heart and Daud froze, his whole being quivering.
“Do you enjoy this?” Daud growled out, the rumble of it enough to shatter Void stone. The Outsider just smiled that simple, fathomless smile.
“Remember what this feels like, Daud. To hold another's heart in your hands. You'll do it soon enough, my love. You will hold so many hearts, all beating in tandem. Together, you will rule the world.”
The god of the Void removed his hand from Daud's chest and the man fell out of the wolf, utterly spent. Cool hands found his sweltering face and he sighed, quivering.
“There are no others,” he snarled. “My friends are gone. The other wolves are dead. There will only ever be me.”
“Are you sure, Daud? You are growing blind in your power that you don't even yet understand. Look closely and you'll find…”
He's flung out of the Void with a lurch. He lands in his hands and knees, naked and drenched in sweat.
“... they're watching.”
“Daud?”
He lurched at the sound of his name, gasping as he broke the surface, coming up for air. His eyes wildly searched the room; he thought this shrine was secure, he thought that it was too high up for anyone else to find, but he was wrong.
Rulfio stood there, jaw set and wristbow steady on his arm. He looked at Daud, prone in front of the shrine, and something in Daud broke.
“Found you.”
The twip was nearly imperceptible, as was the light sting in his shoulder. Daud could have stopped it; could have pulled time into his hand, grabbed the dart, sent it back, fled—
But he didn't. Shock, relief, anger filled him before the sleep dart took effect. Already tired, drenched and completely compromised, he swayed, collapsed, and the world went black.
Hi, it’s me, your Flix Bus driver. I heard some of you back there asking why we’re on this dirt road in the middle of a cow pasture if this is supposed to be a direct line from Berlin to Munich. To that I say: you all need to mind your own damn business and look at the fucking moo cows.
unpopular opinion probably but I actually like that ao3 doesn’t let people take back their kudos.
unlike social media platforms (which ao3 is not) where people unlike stuff whenever they think or find out the original posters’ moral compass doesn’t perfectly align with their own’s or whatever, and “likes” can be taken back at any time, ao3 treats kudos as something sacred. once you give it, it’s the author’s to keep forever.
areudirty
kianamaiart
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
dailybridgerton
pixelskylines
yousharknotpass
origamiaround
