𝘚𝘛𝘖𝘓𝘌𝘕 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘛𝘏.

Curious.

The Outsider stares down at the kneeling assassin; silently pleased that after a four-thousand year existence, he could still be surprised by that which he faced. He expects resentment, just like the others. Great sight tells him that venomous words will grace his ears and ultimately melt off of his pale skin. Those lost children that thanked him for blessing the Knife with his capabilities, all seemed to turn on their heels and reject him once their powers waned due to the exile of Daud. And yet, somehow, this one verbalizes no threats; no weapons are used against the Outsider in what would be a useless act of aggression. 

Instead, Cybil answers his question in earnest; voice as low as the day Daud blessed the child with the Void’s gifts while damming him to a youth of blood and sin. 

“Does one truly care about survival when their very consciousness is enslaved to a much larger hive mind? Why would one ant care what consequences it faces if the queen remains safe and sound?”

“Is that what it means to be cunning? To lose yourself in something else? To remain mindless in the face of obstacles?”

“Try again.”

𝘴𝘰   𝘩𝘦   𝘥𝘪𝘥   𝘯𝘰𝘵   𝘧𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘳   𝘵𝘩𝘦   𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘦   𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳,   no   silver   tongue   to   save   him   from   his   own   hatred.   There   are   many   questions   that   would   haunt   him,   and   perhaps   this   one   would   join   them.   how   tired   of   this   human   duet   the   other   must   be,   bored   to   death   --   but   why   bother   asking   in   the   first   place.   Daud   was   his   source   of   interest,   not   the   ‘ants’   that   were   blessed   with   life   without   choice.   marked   and   marred   in   their   own   ways   but   never   the   subject   --   a   mere   background   at   most   and   a   miniscule   part   at   that   of   the   grand   picture   of   the   old   knife’s   life.   his   mistakes.   his   regrets.   he   doubted   that   the   whaler’s   and   their   wasted   youth   was   part   of   it,   for   there   were   those   that   still   held   him   in   high   regard.   cybil   never   understood   why,   why   now   that   they   were   finally   free   that   they   would   of   their   own   volition   bend   at   the   knee   once   again   and   hand   their   lives   o’er   to   the   old   man.

𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴,   𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘥,   𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳,   it   hums   in   his   bones --   he   wonders   what   song   they’d   sing   if   they   could   like   the   runes   and   bone   charms.   then   if   he   did   not   want   the   lies   --   if   he   knew   the   truth   well   before   even   cybil   could,   what   would   be   the   point   of   asking?

“   when   you   have   lost   yourself   in   something   else,   when   you   have   never   garnered   your   own   self   from   the   fold,   there   is   ease   in   wearing   a   liars   tongue   and   whatever   mask   you   see   fit.   it’s   never   truly   a   lie   then   [...]   but   you   already   knew   all   that,   𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵   𝘺𝘰𝘶?   ”

𝘢𝘯𝘥   𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩   𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵   𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦   𝘥𝘪𝘥   𝘩𝘦   𝘢𝘴𝘬   𝘧𝘰𝘳   𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩   𝘢𝘯   𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳?   with   what   weapon   and   cruel   trick   had   he   meant   to   oppose   upon   the   boy   lost.   both   of   them   wearing   a   different   face   than   they   knew   and   yet   it   was   all   could   be   held   by   them   now.   there   were   many   things   slung   upon   the   outsider’s   name.   a   bastard,   a   devil,   a   god,   a   saint,   savior   and   suitor.   but   none   were   rightly   worn.   and   what   of   the   most   simple   answer   yet   :   𝘵𝘩𝘦   𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥   𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺   𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵   𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥.

The question in his mind wasn’t what the ex-whaler was doing over the balcony, threatening to discard his mask as though he wouldn’t bother to attempt to retrieve it later. The question wasn’t what the street-kid would do now that he’d been unceremoniously freed from The Knife of Dunwall’s puppet strings through the silent threat of Corvo Attano, perhaps mixed with a pinch of shame and a dash of guilt on Daud’s part. 

His sight would make him certain of how the youth caught up in the Big Knife’s web would attempt to find normalcy, at least a form of it –  save for a few key players, of course – All of which will seem to long for the good old days, when the very mention of the whalers from the flooded district could inflict a fear that was almost on par with the horror stories that exhausted mothers told naughty boys and girls about the Outsider to spook them into minding. 

His sight would tell him that the whalers that pine for these days will appear to ignore just how much influence Daud maintained over these assassins and the Outsider will suppose it is common to be unable to see the forest for the trees when one sat so damn close.

The question wasn’t what the ex-whaler was doing over the balcony, threatening to discard his mask as though he wouldn’t bother to attempt to retrieve it later. The question on his mind is why this one was so different. The lost youths that Daud plucked from the filthiest of alleys and the most dangerous of gangs were always so contented with such a bleak existence; all of them were ants simply serving a queen. The lucky few that actually met the Outsider while kneeling at the shrines scattered throughout the city would always scoff at the Void god’s attempt to administer the jagged pill: the reality of contempt for a man they viewed as their savior was always, always dismissed. 

The air in the room seems to shift, growing heavier and cooler, as though a sudden wave from Dunwall’s murky ocean had sucked all of the warmth and life out of the ex-whaler’s surroundings. The Outsider appears, obscured by what only could be described as ripples of water from an ancient ocean that had long dried up. Sitting on the balcony, particles of the Void seem to dance around him, careless in nature as he stares at Cybil curiously.

“What does it take to become as cunning as you, lost boy?” 

Bitterness   had   no   exit,   it   lived   in   his   bones,   and   just   as   fingers   grace   the   neck   of   the   bottle   behind   him   with   a   rather   genteel   way   ----   (   hands   move   just   like   his   fathers   round   the   neck   of   a   bottle   for   comfort,   but   he’d   never   know   that   )   ----      he   appears   before   him.   AND   WHAT   SAY   YOU   TO   ME?   he   can’t   help   but   think   WHAT   COULD   YOU   HAVE   TO   SPEAK   WITH   LIPS   OF   VENOM   JUST   LIKE   HIS   OWN?   Yet   he   bites   his   tongue,   and   o’   how   weary   he   is   of   doing   so,   now   that   he   had   a   voice   and   could   speak   on   his   own   he   wanted   to   say   everything   that   formed   within   his   mind   with   no   fear   of   anyone   holding   anything   o’er   him.   But   a   rat   knows   better   than   to   misstep   on   the   playing   field   of   the   great   leviathan.   He’s   quick   in   his   movements,   left   hand   squeezed   together   and   yet   no   blink   is   offered   to   him.   STAY   IN   THE   SHADOWS   !   ---------    cries   old   thoughts   better   left   to   the   past.   Fingers   unclench   unwilling   to   release   so   soon   still   within   the   sight   of   the   other   and   he   stays   knelt   --   perhaps   bringing   himself   closer   to   the   ground.   He   always   was   one   to   mold   himself   to   shadows   and   spread   o’er   ground   like   blood   soon   to   be   spilt.

Question   graces   his   mind   to   sate   hungry   thoughts   that   swarmed   like   pack   of   wolves,   begging,   pleading   ;   why?   why   have   you   come   to   me?   lowly   and   without   my   own   mind   --   my   own   voice?   WHAT   WOULD   YOU   KNOW   OF   SUCH?   And   yet   the   question   does   not   react   well   with   anger   held   deep   in   chest   and   stomach.

“   to   lose   yourself   in   [...]   something   else   --   i   would   suppose.   and   to   make   it   out   alive.   ”

Anger   blooms   in   face   finally   taken   in   by   daylight,   lips   are   gnarled   and   curled   in   anger,   in   rejection.   The   piece   of   Daud   that   remained,   that   he   still   clung   to,   held   o’er   the   edge   of   a   balcony.   One   movement,   just   one,   he   could   drop   it   –   be   free   of   the   last   restraint   that   he   has   on   him.   Fingers   tremble,   fist   clenched   tight   squeezing   the   mask   in   disdain   before   pulling   it   back   over   the   edge   and   tossing   it   to   the   floor.   A   look   of   defeat   and   annoyance,   confusion,   and   exhaustion   written   across   his   complexion.   Cybil   looks   into   the   hollow   eyes   of   the   mask   as   it   peers   back   at   him,   the   emptiness   speaks   to   him.   It   was   nothing   if   not   a   symbol   of   the   connection   to   the   Knife   of   Dunwall,   the   one   he   claimed   to   resent   for   the   shadow   of   control   he   exerted   over   him.   Without   identity   almost,   and   now   that   he   was   free   to   be   himself   he   had   no   idea   who   that   was.   What   could   hands   that   did   violence   possibly   create   now,   in   the   aftermath?   The   world   was   shifting   and   changing,   and   the   realization   of   the   rather   complex   feelings   towards   his   life   and   his   mentor   were   both   unexpected   and   unwelcomed.