Novice | wolfsliege
Rowan isn't entirely sure how he's ended up here. A few weeks ago he arrived in Dunwall and had to steal scraps from the merchants to survive, and now he was donning a fucking gas mask and taking orders from one of the Empire's most terrifying men. A man that he'd originally scoffed at and believed to be the invention of the less than sane.
'Look who's talking, idiot.'
Well, he'd been proven wrong. Not that it was a terrible thing to be wrong, not that it was awful to have a (kind of, sort of) roof over his head and a job. Being surrounded by former mercenaries, ratty street kids, and others wasn't even that bad. They all kept their respective distances from each other, and he could appreciate that in his current state.
It was just that, well, he found Daud to be intimidating. That was a given with anyone who had a shred of common sense left intact.
He'd never been good with a blade, never had any experience concocting poisons, never held a crossbow or a bow, for that matter. And yet this man seemed to want to push him towards all of the above and see which he'd be best with.
And of course, Rowan would prove to be terrible with all and end up wishing for death or to return to the streets.
Too late for that. He grimaced as he handled the blade in one hand, the weight unfamiliar and a bit uncomfortable. The new assassin risked a look up at the man in red, before diverting his attention back to the sword.
It couldn't be that hard to work out, could it?