⊰⊰֍⊱⊱ “You need not eyes to see me only ears to hear me!” She used Leap to get up onto the outer vents and then onto the rooftops of the square, Rat laid herself down on the roof’s slope as if to blend in a little more. “Dunwall itself is a shadow, long gone are it’s proud and mighty breezes, only a death rattle remains in its stead. I belong in its shadow and in its streets because there is nothing else.”
No home like a proper human but she wouldn’t have been able to stand it. “The Strictures are supposed to bring peace to the mind, body, and spirit are they not? Yet I hear and see blades being drawn by masters who lick their lips for a taste of blood. No wonder the faith it rotting away, no one people are turning to the Outsider for strength. Brutality and fear-mongering do not grand leaders make.” She paused and sighed.
“But dogs are only as good as their owners and I have seen the High Overseer’s worst, most vain face as he’s taken those in need the most to a quiet place than others have not seen, that he guards like a hoarding beast. With a master like that I am not surprised that there are so few Overseers that are gentle and kind to their flocks.” To her it was no longer taunting, it was a discussion.
Brother Haigh gasped. “Witchcraft!”
In a black, twisting mist, she was gone. Lost to the wind. Then, sudden as a scream in the night, her voice pierced the silence. She was on the rooftops. They whirled around.
Insane. Calling them blood-thirsty animals, the reason people live in fear and using the dark arts in front of their faces in their own headquarters for no reason other than to talk. Touched by the Outsider, her mind must be decaying and warped, but even if everything she said was true, none of it was new. His brothers weren’t going to reason with a heretic and now, more than ever, seeing her magic has lit their cravings to kill like a struck match to oil. He had to look loyal, had to break Corvo out. And they weren’t here for civil conversation.
No choice now.
“If that’s how you want to play it, you’re more than welcome to it.” Teague waved his hand and one brother sprinted to sound the alarms. “Bring the Holger’s Device and send in the hounds. We’ll see how long she lasts against the best of us.”
"Attention, all citizens: Curfew extends from sundown to sunrise..."
The announcement cracked through Dunwall like a choir of railed freight trains in the dead of night. A cat, spooked, knocked a trash bin over.
Walking up to the attic, Teague tried not to curse the floorboards for their incessant whinning and popping, but there was no point. He spotted Corvo across the room, awake. There was a strange, whistling sound coming from here. A humming.
“Trouble sleeping, Corvo?“ Tegaue asked, but he wasn’t looking for an answer. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought I’d see to Callista’s requests on more adequate books for Emily. If I’m right, she’s gotten into one of our own...personal works here and there. Nothing we can’t take care of, of course.”
the former high overseer campbell was dead and everything was falling apart.
thomas turned to greet his superior and tipped his head in respect. “brother martin.” he was never sure what to make of the man. teague martin was certainly different in just about every sense of the word and he was once tried for treachery. a part of thomas wondered if the man was truly fit to be the new high overseer, but it had been decided so he accepted it for what it was. and perhaps he would indeed pull the abbey back together. they could hold their sermons again rather than prowl the streets like some kind of policing faction.
“i almost didn’t,” he admitted, angling his head down a moment. “though upon reflection, i thought it’d be good to attend. after all, if everything goes right, there won’t be another dance of investitures for years.
I almost didn’t, Hawley admitted. If everything goes right.
Doubt. Teague stored it in his memory.
“Let’s just hope we aren’t too late. The people are beginning to lose faith in our ways. The plague has made them vulnerable--afflicted--and now their High Overseer, branded an outcast of all things. These are trying days,” he reflected, the shadows falling into the lines on his face. But was he any better? Using the black book to take control, doing the same exact thing Campbell did, everyone bending to his will...
“Though he was hardly a man of the Abbey, all things considered,” he continued, turning to look at Hawley again. His face was at ease, approachable even, and clear as day a flash went off behind his eyes. “Not that it matters, but maybe it’s my imagination--Do you doubt me, brother?”
“What could they possibly be doing at a time like this?” Havelock griped, pinching the bridge of his nose. Teague picked up his glass of whiskey and his blue eyes smiled.
“Nothing but the Sixth,” he quipped. The admiral missed a beat.
“Don’t let your vices get the better of you, Martin.”
And like a bear tromping out of a cave, Havelock turned for the door, his hulking footsteps resounding through the pub whether he realized it or not. Teague’s smile was small but hard to miss, and he caught Emily’s shadow by the counter before he ever saw her head bobbing out.
“Out for a walk, Lady Emily?” he asked, lifting his glass for another drink. “Since you're here and not up in your tower, I take it you've finished your lessons for the night.” And not hiding from Callista.
⊰⊰֍⊱⊱ She had just finished closing the upper window of the bookstore when the burlap lost its balance and toppled to the cobbled ground with a hard thud. And Rat could do nothing but curse as she heard the yelling for the Overseers, they demanded who was there, but she wasn’t that much a fool. She had seen them extract confessions for all kinds: men, women, children. All of them witches in the end.
They wouldn’t know a witch if it bit them in the face.
In a glean of light Rat Leaped from the ledge to the ground, maybe she could collect her prizes before they started searching. She had brought tools, coins, and bottles of wine to the shop. She collected what she wanted and told that she hoped it would be enough. It was naught but fiction, stories and fairy tales so that she wanted to escaped this bleakness for a short time.
She kept as quiet as she could as she gently picked up the volumes that had spilled from the back and gently placed them beside some old crates where they would be safe. She could come back later for them later. Rat kept still and felt a coolness on her eyes and her Mark tingle as she felt the Void aid her senses. In the dark she could hear their muffled movement, see their blood course in their veins, and could smell them even from her spot.
“Really now, you’re all so violent, gripping your blades and pistols as if you are to face a clan of heretics in the Flooded District. No wonder people fear the golden masks to the point where even the Plague seems more a friend. Any that is not your own is the enemy– and even then I have seen Abbey Brothers betray one another like starving dogs.” She spoke unabashed and without fear. She couldn’t Sense a Music Box. Getting away would be easy enough.
Suicidal girl. She had to be.
“Blasphemous...” Brother Haigh was seething. He pulled out his sabre and the sound of metal sang through the air. “A severe caning is in order.”
“Hear that, brothers? She aches for swift punishment,” another snarled. “With pleasure.”
She’s done it. The three of them were drawing out their swords and pistols now, bloodlust running hot through their veins, but not Teague. He didn’t have any interest in cutting her down. She was wandering after hours, stealing, probably, to keep herself alive in this voidforsaken plague and rundown city, but he knew his brothers and what they wanted, what they were capable of. He’d seen it happen so many times. A fool taken to the Abbey and tortured, limbs twisted for a confession before they’re bled dry and thrown onto a heap of other rotting, reckless souls. He wondered: would she be another? At least he knew one thing. Foolish girl...
The loudspeakers blared. Attention, citizens of Dunwall... The three Overseers were ready to pounce, yet Teague was eerily relaxed.
“Is that so? My eyes have been failing me as of late, so you’ll forgive me for asking you to come out a little further. Dunwall’s shadows, you can never escape them,” he mused. No, an obvious lie. A shameless one. His brothers watched hungrily, grinning at what they took as a mock. Even their masks seemed to split into coiled smiles.
The world was twisted here, vicious and ugly. It was a disgusting illusion of frightening calm, the very world his brothers scorned as Hell. Yes, this Hell was his home, the father of heresy himself: The Outsider. “You willingly look into the face of death and laugh.” Oh, god, that voice– “Not many men are brave enough to do that. Even fewer live to tell the tale.” He walked above him, looming overhead in some spiraling staircase, winding up to endless skies as opposed to grounded earth. “I wonder where you fall among them,” he wondered wryly. “Better yet, where you think you do.”
"By the Void.”
It was not warm. It was shades of black, the skies ashen gray like someone had blotted the moon and stars out with heavy, running ink. Darkness seemed to spill inside him, drenching his bones bit by bit. Clogging his pores and organs. Heresy. And the Leviathan loomed above on a spiraling staircase, his two pitch-black eyes falling on him like he’d pried the clouds open with his own skinny fingers and shoved his face in the hole he tore, watching.
There are few brave enough to laugh in the Outsider's face. But Teague Martin is one.
“The Outsider, isn’t it? Funny how things have a way of turning on their heads,” he drawled. “Somehow I thought you’d be bigger.”
Quick as a switchblade, Teague tossed his head to the sound. It had to be coming from over there somewhere, right around the corner of the abandoned book store. A rat? No, there’d be a pack of them in this plague. A cat? They’re too afraid to come near the cackling Wall of Light. A wolfhound? It would have jumped, even barked. So a human.
His brothers in their ominous golden masks turned to her direction. Behind the pitch black holes of their eyes, suspicion and a crave for violence, something they've been starved of for days. One curled his hands around the hilt of his sabre and his voice boomed through the empty square.
aesthetic meme: list your muse’s aesthetic. anyone can do this. list your muse’s aesthetic from tastes, smells, outfits, and scenery. add as many subjects as you like. it can help with people tagging you in aesthetically pleasing things towards your muse!
I was tagged by @hector-goddamn-rodriguez
Tagging: @kinofrats, @wastelandmama, @cleansedhands, @voidseyes, @wcrfareoverseer, @voidbled
TASTES: Aged Morlish whiskey. The bitterness of a cigar he can’t spit from his mouth. The damp and garbage-soaked taste of Dunwall’s air stuck to the back of his throat. He can’t wash it away for long. It always returns.
SMELLS: Smoke from fires used to mask the smell of the dead, but it doesn’t work. Not completely. The brine of the Wrenhaven River, gun oil, lingering blood, the faintest hint of candles that light the corridors of the Abbey when everyone is in prayer. It clings to his clothes.
SIGHTS: The Abbey’s symbol, lit candles on a pulpit, glowing lanterns and fading lamps. A congregation has gathered, everyone on their knees with their hands cupped together while the Seven Strictures, illuminated on a slab in front of them, glows. Piles of papers and vague notes stack his desk, and an ominous light bleeds through his windows in the dead of night. Something blasphemous.
SOUNDS: Whispers in the dark, recanting strictures, the pages of a book turning. A low, deep and droning chant from the sacred halls. The telling sound of an Overseer’s footsteps as their boots clatter down the cobbled, rain-slicked streets of Dunwall. A family cries. Someone has just been killed.
SENSATIONS: Fear and anticipation. The terror and dread in someone’s eyes when they realize there is no turning back, that they have dug their own graves. The guilty self-satisfaction that comes from someone else’s demise. Pride. It swells inside him.
OUTFITS: The dark gray Overseer uniforms, strapped down by belts and holsters. The golden masks reflect the electric blue of the Wall of Light and glowing whale oil, but the eye holes are pitch black. You can’t see their soul. His sabre is by his side and a fully loaded pistol keeps him safe when nothing else will.
BODY: Broad shoulders. Hardened skin that reddens easily in the cold. There are old scars nobody has seen back from his days as a highwayman, a secret as much as anything else. Blue veins, even bluer on the underside of his wrists. His hands, rough and strong, the skin of his knuckles cracked, can fit around a neck easily, but no. His weapon is his wit and tongue.
OTHER: His voice, smooth and low like running water, can calm your fears. It eases the people and brings them security. They feel believed in and protected. They do not see his smile when they turn their backs.
he had no problem with the devout filling his coffers. it wasn’t daud’s fault that the faithless and faithful both expended their coin to solving a problem using short-term solutions; it certainly wasn’t his place to point out longer, if not more fruitful ways to spend their frustrations. greed made him a LOYAL slave.
teague martin had asked him to cut throats before, and could be counted on for an extra wink – but ever since those infernal musicboxes had made an appearance and cornered an unlucky rookie, he had made sure to bring reinforcements in case things went south. daud may be competent enough at swordfighting, but even his knife couldn’t deflect bullets.
he levels teague with a look to say exactly what he thought about the little jab, arms crossed across his chest. eyes scout the vicinity of the plaza and the shadows in its corners, expecting to see a masked overseer – but none came. “ cut to the chase, martin, and maybe i’ll buy you a drink before the night is over. ”
Daud, the Knife of Dunwall, blunt as a mace. Teague’s secretive smile shined brilliantly.
“Then you won’t mind if I hold you to that.”
The Whalers around him made no move, but behind those gas masks, he could guess as to the contempt and suspicion twisting their faces. One of them threw a glance at Daud as if to say, Just give the word. But no word came. Teague closed the distance between them.
"Naturally, I’ll have to apologize for my brother’s devotion to our cause. The Holger’s Device, an instrument intended to render your black magic useless. The pain is said to be almost unbearable,” he started. The music boxes. Teague heard all about it back in the Abbey. A heretic cornered like a rat, pressed to the wall, writhing to the moldy cobbled floors in agony before he was impaled by the end of a sword. One through the heart, then back, then neck.
A Whaler stiffened to protest, but was cut off. Teague brought out a bone charm. It seemed to vibrate and hum in his hand. “Bring this and plant it inside his quarters. He holes himself up in the Tailor’s District--by the Red Baker. I’ll deal with the rest.”
Campbell was dead. It was almost too good to be true.
Teague Martin, about to become the new High Overseer. He was now the most pious man in all the Isles. People were going to look up to him to turn everything around, to change things in the Abbey for the better. He was going to fulfill his promises and put Emily back in her rightful throne, usher in a new realm of greatness and prosperity for the people. It was something he only imagined, but today, now, in the gleaming halls of the Abbey for the Dance of Investitures, it was reality.
“Brother Hawley.” Teague stepped up from behind him, so casual and collected, that way about him. “I must say. It’s a relief--seeing you could make it. Strange. I almost had the feeling you wouldn’t.”
The Trials of Aptitude is a book found in Dishonored that gives a small glimpse into how Overseers are inducted.
In this book, it is revealed that children who show a certain inclination are “marked” and are subject to be studied by senior Overseers for a year, as to make sure this inclination is not just a fluke and is actually supported by cosmology. (The Abbey of the Everyman, the “religion” Overseers follow, opposes the belief and worship of any deity. This is considered heresy. Instead, they believe that man hails from the stars and that we “merge with the Cosmos” in death). After this year-long study, if passed, they then are to endure a journey to Whitecliff where they undergo a ritual. Those who succeed become Overseers. Those who do not are “put down,” which, as I’ve interpreted, means they are killed.
This is all the book tells us. I wanted to elaborate more on how people are inducted, so consider mostly everything below this a massive headcanon.
First, it is noted that children are often the ones to be considered. This is because of the assumption that they are less likely to be corrupted by the Outsider because they have had less time to have been exposed to his dark ways, and would have less time to have given in to him. Adults are more prone to temptations.
Second, the tests and the rituals conducted are highly classified and are secret. No one save for the Abbeymen present and the “marked” know of what happens, and they vow to never reveal this sacred event to the outside world. To do so is punishable by death.
How the selected are chosen varies on a certain number of factors:
1. Cosmological and astronomical factors. Because the Universe and the stars are the central pillars in the Abbey’s belief, it makes sense that prospective candidates are those who were born during certain space phenomena such as lunar/solar eclipses, supernovae (stars going out), planetary alignments, celestial movements, etc. Tied into this is divination. This is a job for the sisters of the Oracular Order. Gifted with “seeing,” they religiously study cosmological events, keep track of planetary movements, etc. Through these readings, they claim to “see” who are most likely to succeed.
2. Children of heretics. Children of heretics also get special attention. The Abbey sees the children not as totally corrupted, but as those who were strong enough to withstand their parents’ corruption. However, these children are not completely clean, either. They must be taken early before the “taint” manifests to a level where they are not salvageable and undergo the Trials of Aptitude to be cleansed, as they are more susceptible to the Outsider’s influence than ordinary children.
3. Most commonly, showing a strong faith in the Abbey. The Abbey recognizes that recruiting only those born during solar eclipses or those who are offspring of heretics is much too narrow. As such, those who show an unbending and relentless faith in the Abbey and its teaching--the Seven Strictures, namely--are, of course, very much considered. They must have no wavering doubts of their conviction and there must be witnesses to their strong faith. This includes things such as attending service very frequently and voluntarily giving out heretics to the Overseers. This is also the chance where those past boyhood can still be considered as recruits.
People under these four types are then, secretly, watched by Overseers for a year. A veteran Overseer is assigned a candidate to watch and is required to report back to the Oracular Order. The sisters then read the Overseers’ notes and observations and confirm them with cosmological signs. Those who have no proof of this stellar confirmation are discarded as candidates.
After the year-long watch, it is time.
Children are abducted from their homes in the dead of night, ripped away from the arms of their mothers who, if too resistant, are murdered because she is then deemed a heretic. The poor souls are then led away, during the Month of Harvest, to the city of Whitecliff in southern Gristol. Here, the secretive rituals begin.
Away from prying eyes, only those who work for the Abbey and prospective candidates are allowed to step into this trial area of Whitecliff.
For two months in the blistering cold, they are to endure three grueling trials:
TRIAL 1. Each person is locked away in a thick-walled, windowless room filled with nothing but a copy of the Seven Strictures, bone charms and runes. It is a common fact that long-term exposure to these dark artifacts’ singing causes a person to go mad. If the candidate emerges from the room four days later mentally sound, preserving themselves through reading the Strictures, they passed. If their minds have broken, they are considered corrupted and are executed on the spot. This trial also nicely taps into the Errant Mind stricture. The Overseers believe that if one’s mind is sound and singular, focused on only the righteous ways of the Abbey by reading the Strictures, they will be safe from the “taint.” This also covers Wandering Gaze, for if their eyes were focused on nothing but the Strictures, success shouldn’t have been impossible.
TRIAL 2. Consume the powder of a crushed bone charm. Those who eat such things touched by black magic often go sick and die in a slow and agonizing death depending on how much is consumed. In the candidate's case, a whole charm is to be eaten. The pain is said to be excruciating, unbearable. Nausea sets in almost immediately and it feels like a burning fire raging on inside, turning all of your organs and lifeblood into char. Only those who survive and recover fully can move on. Returning back to adequate health can take a week or two. Those who fail have already died, and so they spare the Overseers some labor. This task is meant to gauge how strong one is to repel the Outsider’s dark influence. If one is strong, they live. If one is weak to his will, they die.
TRIAL 3. The final trial. Those fortunate enough to still have their minds and to have survived the most agonizing of pain are left stranded on jutting rocks in Gristol’s raging waters. This occurs during the Month of Rain where torrential waterfall and unforgiving storms generate monstrous tides and hellish waves, the frigid, icy waters pounding and merciless. Those who are swept away into the ripping currents are said to have been taken by the Outsider, who is undeniably associated with whales, and thus, the vast ocean. Those who remain on these rocks are said to have been too righteous and remain untouched.
(As these all take place, they also test an overarching theme: resistance to the Outsider. The Abbey believes wholeheartedly that the Outsider dwells in misery, that those in suffering are that much more susceptible to his influence. Because all of these trials are meant to be grueling, meant to push one to one’s limits, this is the perfect breeding ground for the so-called whale god. If the person makes it through all of this, he would have shown that he not only could withstand the trials and follow the strictures with his life, but also withstand even the strongest of the Outsider’s temptations.)
When a candidates has successfully completed all three trials, it is official. They are to become Overseers. A ceremony is held then to induct those who adequately passed all tests and, in the presence of the High Overseer when they return to Dunwall, they recite the Seven Strictures, are given masks, “blessed” with prospects of their future by the Oracular Order, and are then sworn in. They must make an oath to the Abbey, including an oath of celibacy, and swear their undying faith and following of the Strictures.
A stray wolfhound howled. Dust was settling on every surface, twinkling under Dunwall’s pale moonlight, and choked the air like pollen. Daud’s men had to be tucked away on the rooftops. No question. They were lying in wait, looking for any reason to apparate down and sink their blades through his still-beating heart, but they won't. Damn them if they even tried.
He was no stranger to the Whalers and, still, they didn't trust him. That suit him fine.
“I don't suppose you happen to have a spare keg lying around,” he said, gazing up to the rain-dripped rooftops, like he was asking them for a drink. He smiled. "No? Well... It never hurt to ask."
Nothing could disguise the derision on his face as he listened to Martin, though he kept his opinion of such lofty goals to himself. Certainly, the Overseer’s conviction was admirable, but simply removing Burrows from power wouldn’t be enough to tamp down the rampant corruption in Dunwall. Such a cleansing as was being suggested would take years, even decades to achieve — if it happened at all.
“So long as there are men and women in desperate times, the Outsider will continue to have a presence in this world. There will always be people willing to use his gifts — regardless of their choice in the matter — in order to change their fortunes. You cannot eliminate all suffering in the Isles.”
It was both a brazen confession and a challenge, even as Corvo spoke in such a bland tone, his eyes never leaving his drink. Only the mention of Callista brought his gaze up from the glass, and he fixed Martin with a shrewd stare, a quiet, “Careful now, Overseer, you seem to have fallen victim to your own wandering gaze,” barely heard beneath his breath. Immediately following the quiet jab he calls out to the young woman, concern furrowing his brows.
“Callista. Is Emily well? I thought you were watching her?”
“That's right. It won’t be easy, but with control of the Abbey we will at least have the people’s best interest in mind. Maybe I can’t put an end to the Outsider, but I can strengthen the people’s will to resist him. Their trust can be regained.”
Righteous and pure, I do every man’s work. That’s what he told himself. Once this all comes to an end, when the curtains finally close, the Abbey will be cleaned again, and at the top watching over them all, he will lead as new high overseer. The thought of it drifted in his head just as Corvo threw him a shrewd stare. He missed it, but not the muttering.
“It seems I’ve fallen five strictures too soon,” he quipped, just fast enough before Callista arrived. He could tell she didn’t hear him.
“Overseer. Corvo,” she finally greeted, nodding as she held her small hands together. “Yes, Emily just fell asleep... Poor thing. It took her hours just to keep her eyes closed for longer than a minute. I was just going to get some tea. For the morning. The admiral wanted me to ask you to stop by his quarters. It sounded important, but everything you do is, I imagine.”
“You made me look while you shot Lydia and the others, because you couldn’t handle having any power?“ Her voice was as calm as her eyes were sad, her hand falling from the bars of Teague’s cell into her lap. They hadn’t made her, but she’d been there, and it was only by the second shot that she’d been able to cover her eyes. She still wished she didn’t know what the inside of someone’s head looked like. “Look at me, Teague. I have power, I have the Empire in my hands more than you ever could have, but I have yet to kill a single person who didn’t deserve it.”
She didn’t want Teague to look at her, not really. Sitting so close to him brought back memories that she tried to only allow to haunt her at night. Most days, there was more than enough to do to cope. If she took any breaks, it was either to paint or because Corvo wanted her to. There wasn’t anything to protect her now.
“But you deserve it,” she said, her hair falling out of place while she looked down at her hands. “I think you know that. There was guilt in your eyes when we found you.”
"It wasn’t about handling power. It was that we wanted it.” His voice was calm, too, like all those years ago. Only older. “You’ll be surprised how quickly old friends turn on you... when they have their eyes set on the throne. It wasn’t my intention to have you watch. Havelock and Pendleton moved too soon, but I didn’t stop them, either.”
It felt like it was only yesterday. One second, a slow song wandered through the air and everyone was sharing to each other all the things they were going to do. Reopen the pub, buy a new dress just for the sake of it, get married. The next, everyone was screaming and the sound of two bodies hit the floor in hallow thuds with two spent shell casings falling after them. He helped drag Emily away and she hit her head. There were silent tears and rage burning behind Callista’s eyes.
Teague looked at her, but not because she told him to. She was right--she did have the entire empire in her hands--but only because they gave it back to her. That was a worthless point now, though. There was a wordless pain on her face, and her hands fell limp in her lap.
"Somehow, I could never see Corvo going out of his way to keep me alive,” he finally said, thinking back to Kingsparrow Island. He remembered how it felt to slip away. “I always thought you had something to do with it."
A thin layer of soot was building within the glass walls of the lantern, its fire safe and fluttering inside. Teague flipped through a page in Campbell’s black book and listened as Callista’s soft footfalls came close. He watched her walk by.
“Eyes on the book, Martin,” the admiral suggested. “What do they call that? A case of the Sixth?”
Teague smirked, lifted his hand, and turned the page with one finger. “If not for the Sixth, then I'd be guilty of the Third.”
A muscle in Corvo’s jaw twitched at Teague’s words. “The plague shows no signs of diminishing, and those with the power to stop it sit locked away congratulating themselves on the murder of the one woman who was trying to save them all. I don’t blame them for their lack of faith, and violence against them will not prove them wrong. They are willing to plead with the Outsider because they see His aid as being more likely given than the aid of the City Watch or the Abbey.”
To say that Corvo had — over the course of his imprisonment and experience with the Loyalists — lost much of his own faith in the city’s main institutions, would be an understatement. The Abbey so consumed with witch-hunts and heresy that they no longer upheld their own rules, and the city watch so corrupted their presence had become a threat to citizens instead of security — any regret he had at using his gift from the Outsider disappeared at the thought.
“That’s a dangerous question, Overseer Martin. I do what you ask of me because it is a worthy cause, and I have yet to spill blood. I am no shining example of the strictures, certainly, but I can promise you I do not practice witchcraft.”
That would be the expertise of Granny Rags, and if rumours were true, the Brigmore Witches. The crafting of charms and the use of rituals were not for Corvo. The abilities he gained were enough.
There was an edge to Corvo’s voice. He couldn’t have been imagining it.
“The Abbey has been corrupted from the inside, soiled by Campbell and his lot. Once the lord regent has been dealt with, we can finally rebuild, and those who have fallen from grace can be brought back up again.” His voice was relaxed, but he stood firmly on that belief. The Outsider was not the answer. Not for him, and not for Dunwall. “A man will do anything given that he’s desperate enough. The Outsider knows that, uses it to work his magic. But the people will heal. And his influence will weaken.”
He didn’t expect Corvo to give his heart and soul to the Abbey, not when overseers were painting the streets with blood babbling strictures under their breaths. And after being thrown into Coldridge Prison, tortured and beaten by the guards, he bet Corvo didn’t trust the City Watch any more. So maybe he’d turn to the forbidden arts then, inked the Outsider’s mark on the back of his hand. But he wouldn’t say it even if he did.
A tense cloud hung in the air--swelling, lingering--and Teague smiled.
"I don’t doubt it, of course. Like I said, call it curiosity, eh? We’re all on the same team,” he said. There was a short laugh at the end and he picked his whiskey back up just as Callista walked down the stairs. She was coming this way. “That Callista is a sight for sore eyes, isn’t she?”
