@northridden
The Whaler doesn’t know what in the Void ‘Halloween’ is supposed to be, but they do know roasted hare when they smell it.
Meals with the Whalers tended to be meager; even when the money was good, their facilities were usually not. Rats or potted whale meat tended to be the meal of choice, especially after the group moved into the Flooded District. Roasted, seasoned hare was for the nobility and the nobility alone. They’d seen it often during missions into the wealthier districts, before the Rat plague at least, and the smell practically haunted them.
And here it was, in a cheap ‘Halloween’-themed food stall, Outsider knows how far from Dunwall. An entire roasted hare, stuck on a thick wooden skewer, the last one in stock.
They snatch it from the stand almost as soon as they lay eyes on it, transferring the credits to the rat attendant only after it sinks its teeth into their hand. It’s hard to get used to using a currency that appears to be entirely pretend. Almost like Serkonan chocolate coins, but at least those were physical objects. Why the Ark bothers, they’ll never know.
Economy aside, the Whaler tucks themselves happily into a dark, quiet alley. For them, darkness and low through traffic are essential qualities in eating areas; they don’t like other people seeing any part of their face, no matter how small, and eating requires them to lift their mask over their mouth. A dark, damp, cramped alley is perfect for them, even if the cleanliness leaves a lot to be desired.
They’re pretty sure it’s safe for them to eat here. They press their back to one of the moldering walls of the alley and push their mask up just enough, mouth watering as the aroma of the still-hot roast hits their soft palate. Stomach rumbling, they prepare to take a bite of the juicy, tender dish of their dreams—
The hair on the back of their neck stands on end. They whip around to face the far side of the alley, whole body prickling with the sense of being watched. The sharp motion sends the hare slipping off its skewer and tumbling on to the dirty, wet ground, bouncing and rolling until it stops just short of a stranger standing in the shadows.
Fuck. The Whaler slaps their mask down but keeps their pose at least somewhat friendly. They’re still unarmed; starting fights against strangers is never a good idea.
“Hello there,” they say, with audible caution. “Seems you’ve made me lose my lunch.”
