#bloederig

      𝐑𝐡𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐳𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞. She described the dirt correctly, its red stain goes hardly unnoticed by visitors; its drinks were cheaper and stronger than those in Saint Denis, but Eleanor found the place an eyesore than anything. There was something more here, something more than the mentions of Dutch Van der Linde in the area. No, there was something the townsfolk were hiding, and she was surprised a family as large as Braithwaites and Grays hadn't moved onto grander landscapes. Instead, they stayed here, and they had influence here. It was their own Saint Denis. Yet, without the modern touch.

      Eleanor’s form is reflected in the windows of the general store behind her, perched on the bench outside. Here, notepad in hand and pen clenched between fingers, she’s writing a to-do list for the week. She planned to stay in Rhodes for a few days, yet she felt as if the town gave her nothing of substance in her visit. The townspeople were short on conversation of Dutch Van der Linde, replaying the same rumors she’s overheard in the town over. They are tighter-lipped on any other activity in the area, which only grew her curiosity even more.

      A soft tap on her shoulder pulled her out of her thoughts. Eleanor lifts her head but keeps her pen stationed in her hands. The figure next to her is unfamiliar.

       ❝ Is there something you need, sir? ❞

more than anything. despite not being religious, corvo was raised with a specific idea of mourning, of burial and saying goodbye. jessamine's death brings back a lot of old, specific feelings about his mother's death because he didn't get to say goodbye to either. jessamine has pushed for him to return to serkonos when his mother had last wrote to him, and the next word was that she'd been killed in a mining incident.

this is where he can relate to delilah, which is very rare, because their mothers were taken from them incredibly abruptly and in ways that are symptomatic to bigger problems. corvo doesn't even get a day to grieve - who would serve as royal protector in the meantime?

so, instead, he carries a little bit of grief every day. it vibrates in him and lives in his bones the way fatigue does. he processes his mother's death only when he is in coldridge - which can hardly be considered processing, or coping, he simply has nothing to do those six months but grieve.

corvo doesn't talk about his mother, even to emily. emily knows very little about her grandmother, even less about her grandfather. she has scraps of her aunt, maybe the most complete puzzle of the three. because corvo can believe that maybe, maybe, beatrici is alive, and happy.

              there is a gentleness in this that's almost completely unheard of from him. the closest in decades has been in the quiet of dunwall tower, with a daughter or his closest friend, but his daughter has long outgrown sitting around with him in corners and jessamine is long gone. his mother, beatrici, rafael? dust, basically.

              this is the level of strange he's come to expect from the outsider. but there's also a level of comfort that makes corvo understand, just a little, how people come to adore him. corvo shuts his eyes for just a moment, and opens to look at the outsider straight back.

              " how safe is someone ever, with you? " that was cruel, and he knows it. it's not intended — he only doesn't know what to do. " i've fallen off these rocks more times than i can count. you can't build me a path, in my old age? "

@bloederig​ said: "  i felt your absence. "

- quotes - || Accepting

     Annoyance was the first emotion in reach- anger following soon after. His absence, like it was Daud that had left, like it was Daud that controlled their connection. Like it was Daud that had been the one to declare the Outsider interesting again when the assassin decided to butt heads with Delilah Copperspoon.

     “You’re the one that controls when he shows up. The absence is yours.” Not entirely true, of course. The matter was more complex than that, more nuanced than one simply ignoring the other. By now they were too deeply intertwined, incapable of being fully untangled no matter how much Daud took his blade to their threads. But there was something uncomfortable in him. To be missed, to have his absence felt. To be feared, to be reviled, hated, those emotions he understood; for one to hate his absence because that meant that he may strike soon, that he was comfortable with.

@bloederig​ said: blows daud a kiss :-)

     Ducks.

PLOTTED STARTER.

↳  setting:  a long-abandoned building in old dunwall.

the moon’s nearly full,   the light it’s giving off just enough for traversing an area of dunwall that’s been deserted since the rat plague,  its street lamps have long since ceased functioning and there’s no light to be seen coming from any one of the old buildings.  it’s one of a great many neighborhoods that are slated for restoration  —  eventually.  there are only so many work crews to go around,  and this particular region of the city is more rundown than most  —  it’d been on the verge of collapse well before the plague,  according to the records she’s come across,  so there isn’t any real call to get anyone back in their homes.  truthfully,  there’s little to be found about where the residents of the neighborhood had ended up,  though she’s certain the drive to investigate further will arise once the area’s been thoroughly explored.

as the girl  —  still so young but bearing the title of ‘empress’ for a little over five years now  —  stands atop one of the tallest remaining buildings,  it occurs to her that it seems almost haunted.  it’s the sort of superstition that springs so naturally from weeks dealing almost entirely with overseers and the horror stories of the occult that they’re so fond of sharing in hushed tones.  the high overseer isn’t such a problem,  but he’s one of few who doesn’t regard emily as a child in some way  —  something she’s grateful for.  

being underestimated by nearly all whose paths cross with hers has become grating,  and that alone prompts a clawing restlessness that runs up and down her spine the moment she attempts to sit still.  that,  paired with the knowledge that the next day is likely to be worse,  had left one singular option...  in that staying confined to dunwall tower itself hadn’t been an option.  the cool night air is doing wonders as far as clearing her head,  and while it doesn’t stop the festering irritation that lingers beneath her well-maintained exterior  —  ever presenting herself as the empress of the isles and simply hoping those who matter will see beyond her age  —  it’s...  about all she’s able to do,  which only serves to make things worse.

a series of well-timed leaps and a semi-graceful slide down a drainpipe lead her to the deserted street below,  because this isn’t the sort of occasion where sitting on a rooftop will be enough.  instead,  emily gives into it:  the desperation to explore,  to see things,  even if those things are limited to a pack of crumbling buildings and an eerie silence that covers this part of dunwall like a deep fog.  it’s better than sitting in her apartments with patience decreasing each time the clock ticks to indicate that another second has passed.  

she’ll be back in the early hours of the morning  —  before the sun’s up,  before anyone knows she’s gone  —  and for now the young empress will bask in the feeling of freedom that’s so rare and fleeting...  even if it’s not all that free.  even if it never has been,  and never will be,  and she’s resigned simply to exploring the city at night for the briefest glimpse of life outside of her own.  

maybe it isn’t everything she wants,  but it’s better than nothing.  

the first hour leads to very little,  just some broken bottles and rotten fruit  —  a few coins here and there  —  with fewer treasures of any real interest   ❪  though there have been a few  ❫.   emily finds a part of herself tempted to go home,  to sleep and hope that tomorrow’s visiting diplomats are less trying  —  not likely,  but certainly possible  —   there’s only one building left on this side of the street,  though,  so it seems that taking a while longer to feel as if she’s completed something is worth it.

the storefront,  like most of the others,  is just broken glass and a few goods scattered here and there.  most of them are broken,  too,  but emily pockets a few interesting trinkets to look at more closely later.  once she’s satisfied at the thoroughness of the search of the lower level,  she finds her way to the staircase.  it’s still in decent shape,  but that doesn’t mean she can proceed freely  —  instead,  with each step she takes her time,  caution exerted as the floorboards creak and a sort of exhilaration courses through her at each successful move made.  

the area,  from what she’s inferred,  had been home to varying merchants of basic goods,  nothing spectacular to be seen in the shops themselves;  in fact,  anything bordering on truly interesting has been discovered in the homes that’d been occupied by the owners of any given shop.  some of them have been in truly awful shape,  others have seemed almost to offer a step backward in time with perfect preservation...  aside from layers of dust.  while they’d prompted the most prominent urge to explore further,  those are the ones she hadn’t dared touch;  it’d seemed like an invasion to so much as think about it.  for now,  she’s decided to ignore the gnawing question as to why some homes have gone so untouched,  focusing instead on the strange feeling of anticipation that grows with this final stop.  emily can’t explain it,  but the sensation of the space being haunted is stronger here than had lingered even in the deserted streets.

for the most part,  it’s on the messier side  —  graffiti adorns the walls,  there’s more broken glass crunching beneath her feet,  but other rooms seem to have seen only a few minor disturbances.  it’s strange,  really,  and to think that looters would leave anything alone once they’d begun makes emily feel the slightest bit uneasy...  but it doesn’t stop her from pushing open the final door.  eyes widen,  her heart racing at a discovery that surpasses any made until now.  a careful step is taken inside as she scans quickly for traps before curiously finding herself standing in front of an altar.  its construction is based mostly of wood,  bent nails securing each leg in place while barbed wire holds together a handful of additional wood pieces on the surface.  it’s not the wood that catches her eye,  though,  or the precarious construction itself...  no,  emily’s attention hones in on the carved bones that sit atop a purple and gold cloth that might’ve been very fine once. 

it’s both surprising and entirely the opposite that she recognizes it.  not firsthand,  of course,  but etchings have appeared in reports from the overseers now and then.  there’s no doubt in the mind of the empress that this is a sort of shrine set up by those who defy the overseers in expressing devotion to the outsider.  the thought alone prompts a sort of chill to come over her,  and with that chill comes a realization:  the overseers have been unable to provide any sense of comfort on the subject of her mother.  still,  since she was ten years old and newly ascended to the throne,  emily has sought peace.  comfort.  anything at all that might make her feel even a little better.  

the feeling that she should approach is a vague one at first,  one she can’t quite place,  but with each passing moment it seems to solidify as she finds herself drawn nearer and nearer.  emily’s sure even corvo would protest to this sort of curiosity,  but before that thought truly settles in her fingers drift lightly over the surface of one of the intricately carved ivory slabs...  and even as the briefest contact is made,  the air in the room shifts.  something’s different.  it’s something else that seems impossible to place,  until her hand retracts forcefully as her eyes lock on a pair she can recall so vividly even now.  what a ten year old had called ghost,  the teenager she’s grown into suspects that the dark eyes before her now belong to something else entirely.    

FALL OUT BOY.

PROMPT,   accepting.

will she ever truly understand the void?   the outsider?  the overseers would prefer that her imperial majesty not so much as try,  and while she trusts the high overseer,  that doesn’t change the fact that to have even spoken with the outsider would be considered heresy.  to have received his mark?  that’s something else entirely.  

of course,  corvo works closely enough with the overseers  —  the high overseer especially  —  and has managed to hide his own mark for years following the rat plague...  so who’s to say she won’t manage the same?  the bandage worn ‘round her hand has sufficed to this point,  and most wouldn’t dare question something so small and seemingly inconsequential worn by their empress.  

truthfully,  she wouldn’t be entirely surprised if some courtier decided it was some new fashion trend and before long the entirety of her court have their own hands adorned with similar wrappings.  annoying as emily might find such a fad,  it’d be convenient at least.  

besides,  there are worse things than the frivolous pursuits of the bored nobility she finds herself surrounded by day in and day out.  that,  and it’ll be one more thing to laugh about with wyman    something that emily could never find it in herself to complain about.  

as far as the mystery of the outsider,  at least that’s something else she’s able to discuss with someone,  as much as she’s fairly sure corvo would prefer the subject left alone.  royal protector,  royal spymaster,  father  —  all those titles,  but she’s still empress,  and from time to time that’s the sort of thing emily will choose to remind him of.  is it something else he hates?  that seems a fair assumption,  but her father’s something of a mystery himself,  always surprising her when she’s certain she knows how he’ll respond to any given action.

still,  one thing she does know is that corvo’s most concerned with her safety and ability to defend herself.  bearing the outsider’s mark is simply another tool that’ll provide emily the capacity to ensure her own well-being.  were the question posed,  she’d make it clear that the fact that she’d survived a coup and retaken her kingdom is further proof of that.

leave it to this enigma of a man,  a god by every right,  to make her achievements and capability seem so small a thing.

somehow,  @bloederig​’s  words come from all around her,  leaving emily entirely unable to pin down a singular location  —  but it doesn’t matter,  really,  does it?  it isn’t as if he’s shown himself to be truly malicious in any way.  in fact,  there’s something in his demeanor that makes her think of the bored nobility she’s so often surrounded by;  searching desperately for any source of entertainment in a world that sometimes calls for one to find their own means of getting through a day...  or what the empress would assume are eternities,  in the case of the pale,  black-eyed being she’d first seen as a child.

" just one mistake is all it will take. "

so,  is the observation made of boredom?  an attempt to goad her into some sort of action?  the conversation thus far has surrounded her reign and the difficulties faced in her pursuit to recapture her throne.  each turn,  each twist,  each passing moment leaves emily increasingly uncomfortable in the lack of certainty that rises up.