#corvodaud

Behind Corvo, two members of the Royal Guard were with them, but you wouldn't be able to tell by the way they were dressed. Emily and her entourage were entirely in civilian clothes; while the guards (and Corvo himself) were armed, their clothing was breezy and in fashion for the seaside town, instead of the easily identifiable deep blues and yellows of the Kaldwin house. No— here, with no true official business to attend to besides “unwind,” they could be far more undercover, and, dare any of them say it within earshot of Corvo himself, relaxed. 

Of course, neither of the guards did. Emily, on the other hand, was far more open and fiendish with this moment of freedom. She tugged at Corvo’s arm gently, easing a wrapped and stiffened hand out of a stubborn pocket. 

“Look. It's just a few days, and you really do need some time to relax. We still have a long trip around the Isles, and you were already so agitated when we landed for an evening in Whitecliff.” For good reason, of course, not that Emily needed to know that. Ever since getting Marked by the Outsider ten years ago, Corvo was reasonably tense against the religious group that would love an excuse to kill him without a second thought. “So, for just a few days, until next year, you are relieved of being Royal Protector. And I'll be relieved of being the Empress of the Isles.”

His teeth ground down into his cheek, jaw working. His scowl didn't lower, the air leaving his lungs harshly through flared nostrils. “You'll keep at least one of the guards with you at all times, yes?”

“Only if you promise to get an actual shave and haircut, Corvo.” 

His head jerked back, indignant. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me; you haven't shaved in the last two weeks we've been on the boat.”

“I can shave myself, thank you.” 

Her look grew incredulous. 

“Go get pampered then, Corvo Attano. Or, whoever you choose to be for the next so many sunrises.” 

With that, Emily walked off, taking Alexi with her. Corvo frowned deeply, watching her go, before conferring with the remaining guard— Jameson Curnow— to find them some rooms on the mainland to stay at. The main boat was always an option too but it was moored out of sight so as to not draw attention to the fact that the Empress was both traveling the Isles and had stopped for a break. It was her first trip around the Isles since she came into power— long overdue, but leaving Dunwall had proven impossible for so many years as the city recovered from the damage the plague caused. 

Now, they were hitting all major cities besides Karnaca. Cullero was not a scheduled stop, but they would be heading up past Bastillian, to Potterstead, up to Dabokva, Caulkenny to Wynnedown, before heading south towards Dunwall again. This made Cullero a good rest stop, with no expectations of the Empress and no executive functions to pay attention to. 

Four days gave her time to be young, gave the crew some time for shore leave, and gave him some time in the sun of his youth instead of stuck in the Dunwall grime. 

In theory, anyway. 

Jameson walked off to find them appropriate lodgings and Corvo watched him go, lungs breathing in the ocean spray. His discerning eye couldn't see Emily anymore; her and Alexi were already lost among the crowd of beach-goers and boardwalk vendors. His scowl slowly softened in the seabreeze, so much fresher than the salt and whale oil of Dunwall. He took in another breath, let it out, and moved inland. 

Cullero reminded him of Karnaca, but at the same time, the cities were distinctly different. For one thing, Cullero spread out where Karnaca spread up, carving constantly into the mountainside as veins of silver were uncovered. Cullero had far more coastline and lowlands, the white sand blinding and hot against the sun. Plenty of visitors and natives were on the water this time of the year, regardless of salt and seaspray and weather. Corvo turned away from the beach, however, instinctively seeking out higher elevation, away from the suffocating crowds and water humming with Void just under the breaking waves and decaying boardwalk.

A slow walk when going the more pedestrian route, in time Cullero’s interior opened its doors to him. Inside, away from the excitement and music and smells and noise, Cullero became a quieter place, with the music subdued and the vendors transforming into shops and pantries and locals murmuring about all of their troubles. For the first time in decades, Serkonan language flowed into his ears like water washing away the grime and gristle of Gristolan. A musical and fast language, he had almost forgotten how it sounded in the ear and not just in his head. Many a time he had tried to teach the late Empress Serkonan, with very little headway. And Emily, well, that was even trickier— since he wasn't seen as her father and just her Royal Protector, he had no say in what she would learn in her studies as a child. As she got older, she prodded him about her heritage but finding time to teach her anything, much less the language, was like pulling leeches off exposed skin. So, for twenty-odd years, Corvo had had no one else to speak Serkonan with, not regularly at least, and only in fleeting words and moments. 

Now it was everywhere, surrounding him in swelling song, switching easily to Gristolan whenever the odd vacationer walked up to a shopkeep. A smile pulled at his mouth; perhaps he could blend in here in a way that he hadn't been able to for years. 

What was it Emily had said? Whoever you choose to be for the next so many sunrises. He was no stranger to being behind a mask, but for the first time in thirty years he was not a stranger in a strange land but a man who belonged to the land who could blend in like a chameleon. He could be himself here. Just maybe, perhaps, under a different name and title, for a little while.

‘Corvo Attano’ was just as famous in Serkonos as he was in Dunwall, after all. 

He walked along, workshopping names in his head, as he stopped and purchased a small treat of churros. His Serkonan was shaky but fluid and the clerk couldn't help but notice his accent. 

“Karnaca?” He asked, his handlebar moustache twitching with a small smile. Corvo smiled back and nodded. “Born and raised. Left when I was young and still yet to go back, but Cullero is close enough to feel like home.”

Crow’s feet crinkled at the clerk’s eyes. “Still time to sail home one day, then.”

“One day,” Corvo agreed, and kept on his way.  A small interaction, but his heart felt as light as the fried dough in his hand. 

When was the last time he had told someone he was from Karnaca and had them return the statement with excitement or enthusiasm or even kinship? An exhilarating feeling that he could get used to and then be loathe to part with in a few day's time.

The dough was crisp when he bit into it, seasoning bright and sweet, nostalgia settling on his tongue. He wiped the grit from his lengthening beard and frowned. 

Perhaps it would be good to find a barber in-town, instead of handling the shaving on his own. Just this once, anyway; barbers were known for being good local conversation, after all. 

He walked a ways further, checking the tighter buildings further back and up as he went, cobblestone slowly sloping upwards. Fashion stores, cigar parlors, wineries, convenience, tattoo parlors. More than a few darker alleys, pointing towards black market wares. While he was tempted, he kept moving on, reminding himself he didn't need to stock up on trap snares while he was here— at least, he hoped. Instead his feet carried him on, following a small street towards a larger thoroughfare. There, over the faces of passerby and among the signs, the familiar white red and blue spiral made itself known. 

Nestled between a bakery and a tailor shop, the small barbershop had a nice view of the ocean, giving Corvo an easy route back to the sands. Where the lines of the sun were growing hot and long outside, the interior of the barbershop was cool and maintained, if a bit stuffy. The smells of lye and sandalwood and bergamot played in his nostrils as he looked around.

There was one other person in the shop, already in the hot seat, with a young barber tending to the client’s needs. The boy (a teen really. A slim, tall and wiry thing, not yet grown into his future girth) looked over as Corvo entered, giving a greeting in Serkonan, prompting Corvo to give a small nod in response. Corvo then exhaled, looking around before finding a seat and pulling up a local magazine to flip through while he waited. The barber spoke to his client before walking over to Corvo. Barely a page in, the magazine politely decided to close.

“Welcome sir! You're a new face. What can we do for you today?” His own hair was well kept, coiled expertly and cleanly, and it was clear his age was not a determinant for his skill.

“Just a shave and a trim, today, at my daughter's behest. Guess she thinks I'm getting bedraggled in my old age.” 

“Excellent sir, not a problem at all. If you would be so kind as to wait for a few minutes, my boss will be out in just a moment and he'll take care of you. Any notes you want him to know before he starts to work on you?”

“Oh, just to keep my hair a little long,” he said easily. “I have some scarring on my neck that my hair is still thick enough to hide.” Old stubborn Coldridge reminders that were easier to hide under a curtain, and keeping his hair long always made the neatly trimmed nobles in the Tower that much more irritated with his presence. 

The barber nodded and took out a pad and wrote the notes down. “And a name, sir?” 

“Antonio,” he said swiftly and not at all like he had been debating a name for the last few hours. The barber just nodded again, informing Corvo he would be back in a moment. With that, he disappeared in the backroom before reappearing and tending to his earlier client.

The sound of their easy words and the radio in the corner filled Corvo's ears as he went back to the magazine, idly flipping through without a destination in mind. The pages were in Serkonan as well; he practiced flexing his reading muscle, but reading was harder when it came to Serkonan. He knew the letters, which helped, but when he learned to read in Karnaca, Gristolan was placed higher than Serkonan, so that is what he learned first. Didn't help that under the Duke's employ, he learned even more Gristolan, in preparation for heading to Dunwall. It paid off, of course, and changed his life, but still, the struggle of seeing the words now hurt more than he thought it would. 

The sound of footfall and a chair being lowered. A gruff voice cut through his literary attempts. 

“Antonio?” 

Corvo looked up, happily playing his role, but nearly dropped all pretenses when he saw the face of the man speaking to him. 

The barber was well muscled, thick in the arm and the shoulder and chest, his rough hands wrapped as if he moonlit as a boxer. Corvo wouldn't have doubted if that was the guy's secondary profession, if he wasn't so preoccupied with other features, namely the peppered, slicked back black hair, the steel blue eyes, and the deep, mottled scar that marred the right side of his face, slicing from jawline to brow. 

Standing here, in this Cullero barbershop, was none other than the Knife of Dunwall. Daud.

The Royal Protector gaped for only a second before he coughed, wiping his mouth closed with a hand. He stood up as easily as he could, tried to wet his drying mouth, and said “Yes that's me.” 

Corvo's Serkonan words broke under the stress. The man just raised that sliced eyebrow, giving him a once over. 

“Well get over here then, you look like a disheveled rat.” Corvo, however, remained rooted to the spot. Daud scowled, a hand gripping at the leather of the barber chair. “Look, I don't have time for someone to be  this intimidated by my scars, I ain't gonna cut ya just because I got cut once.” 

Daud's voice in Serkonan was so different that Corvo nearly second-guessed himself on his memory. His accent was local, smooth, though the time-worn edges still remained. For some reason, the sound of a different language was enough to get him to break out of his awkward stance and he goes over, almost sheepish as he settled into the chair. 

“My apologies,” he mumbled out, the leather hot where the sun had traveled across it. “I was just so surprised. Don't tend to see someone with scars as bad as mine.” He revealed that piece of himself to gauge the response; if Daud was phased he doesn't voice it aloud, instead choosing to toss the apron over Corvo's neck, slowly pumping the chair up. 

“Yea your notes said something about a scar. Back of the head?” A hand carded unceremoniously through the long strands at the nape of Corvo's neck and he sucked in a breath, closing his eyes as if expecting some sort of blow-back. When none came, he chanced to open his eyes again. Daud was there, scowling at him in the mirror, a strange look across his stranger features. 

“Does it hurt?” The question is genuine. Corvo coughed again, covering it this time with a single laugh.

“No, no, it hasn't hurt in years, but sometimes the nerves still twinge.” Daud grunted, understanding, a thin comb brushing across the long line of a raised Coldridge scar. 

“I understand that feeling. When the weather turns, my face will go stiff. Never fun to wake up to.” Corvo’s gaze was searching in the mirror but Daud had moved on, a clip in his mouth. “So just a trim for the top?” 

“And a shave, please.” A nod, then Daud (the assassin, the murderer of the late Empress—) was parting his hair, judging lengths before wetting Corvo's strands. 

And Corvo sat there, stunned into an almost absolute silence. He said nothing, just watched as the man who played a part in ruining his life worked at trimming a few centimeters off his hair. Listening to the other barber chatting and finishing his client, Corvo got the sneaking suspicion that while he recognized Daud, Daud had yet to recognize him. 

Which— which may be better for both of them, in the long run. And he didn't have to be Corvo Attano, after all. 

There was a murmur over his shoulder and a tap on his shoulder and Corvo obediently leaned his head the direction Daud needed to complete his job. He licked his lips, left hand itching under his wrap, and tried to still his wriggling leg. 

“So, a barber next to the waterfront. How long have you been here?” 

A pause while Daud thought. “Maybe about seven years now. Took some time to find the location, but it suits me better. Surprisingly quiet.” 

Corvo laughed. “Quiet! With all the people walking by?” 

“Don't get a lot of non-local clients,” he clarified. “You'd be my first in a long time.” 

“Have a long boat trip behind me and ahead of me, and my daughter implored I get cleaned up after being at sea for two weeks.” 

Daud gave him another look from his reflection in the mirror. “You get this unkempt after only two weeks?” Corvo, sensing the underlying jab, just sneered.

“Hey! I don't need you getting on my case about this too! I can't help it if my hair is still this thick, this close to 50.” 

Daud huffed out a laugh, before checking his lengths. Corvo realized he was not just trimming, but also layering, giving Corvo a more even look instead of just a curtain of hair partially obscuring his features. 

“You are lucky for that. My hair started thinning before 40, but now my problem is it's all going white.” 

“I have heard ladies enjoy a good salt and pepper.” 

“If only I was interested,” Daud said with an eyeroll. Corvo hid his surprise, his face remaining even; he hadn't expected that answer. Then again, it's not as if he knew Daud, and it's not as if Daud knew him as much more than the Royal Protector who washed up in the Rudshore District, one foot in the grave from being betrayed and poisoned. There was no amicable feelings between the two men— Daud had shoved a blade into the Empress’s body in front of Corvo's very eyes— but by then, Corvo knew who the real threat was, and it wasn't the assassin who had saved his life and then let him silently leave.

So Corvo had given Daud the same grace, letting him live despite his transgressions against Corvo and the crown. Daud had then disappeared, vowing to leave Dunwall after. 

Now, sitting in a barber chair in Cullero, a whole island away, it was clear Daud had stayed true to his promise. Not that Corvo didn't already know, hadn't checked every corner of the City for him, just to make sure he was gone, but this simply confirmed it. 

And now here the Knife of Dunwall was, talking about himself and saying he wasn't interested in women. Or maybe it was more nuanced than that. Corvo shifted again and Daud grumbled in disappointment, telling him to stay still. 

“Are you not in a lady's fancy, or simply not interested in what people think of you?” 

Daud gave him another scowling look. “A peculiar question for an out-of-towner.” 

Against Daud’s wishes, Corvo waved his hands apologetically under the barber apron. 

“No, no! Not like that! Just a clarifying question, to make sure I understood. I hold no judgement here.” Another indiscernible look, before Daud was grunting again, running fingers through hair, shaking it out. 

“How's that? Think your daughter will be happy?” 

The layered look is certainly… different but still kept its length and fullness, hiding both his ears and the scars on his neck. Corvo nodded approvingly and Daud nodded back. 

“Good. Should keep you cooler in this summer heat as well. How long are you in town?” 

“A few days. Our current schedule has us leaving after Fugue is finished.” 

“Well, have fun with that,” Daud said, not sounding excited at the prospect of the upcoming holiday. “How old is your daughter?” 

“She'll be 20 just at the top of Rain.”

“And where's her mom during all this?” 

“Ah.” Corvo started, but his voice must have betrayed him. Daud, halfway through picking up his lather and brush for the upcoming shave, paused to give him a look in the mirror. “She's… not with us anymore.”

Daud actually looked surprised. No way he recognizes me then, Corvo thought to himself, but he still swallowed, his throat feeling thick. A flicker of an unspoken emotion passed over Daud's eyes before he came back over with his tools. 

“I'm sorry. That was my mistake.” His voice was solemn. Somehow, though his eyes traveled elsewhere, Corvo managed to wave him off. “It's okay. It's been ten years. It still hurts, but it is an ache I have grown around.” 

Daud nods, his brush already busy lathering up for the shave in his hands. Corvo swallowed again, mentally preparing for the next section of his grooming. 

It was only when he stopped talking did he realize the ambient noise held no voices. The other barber had finished with his client and had retreated into the back room.  No other clients had walked in this late in the evening, so the only other people were the tourists walking past— to the beach, to a pub, to dinner, and not to a barber.

Corvo Attano was about to let the Knife of Dunwall put a blade to his neck and nobody was going to be around to see what happened if that blade slipped. 

“Ready?” Corvo's eyes flicked back to the mirror, being pulled out of dark fantasies of his grotesque end coming at the edge of a straight razor in a leather chair in the middle of a beach and wine town. His dark brown eye met Daud's expectant blue, and he gave a stiff nod. 

There must have been something in his gaze. “This is the first time you've ever let someone else shave you, isn't it?” 

Corvo swallowed, his neck bobbing. It was a true statement, but only a partial concern. He nodded stiffly again, feeling like an automaton. 

Daud relaxed his shoulders, breathing out. 

“Well, first things first, I'll get you lathered. Then I'll just need you to be plenty still. If not, your face will end up like mine.”

Corvo's eyes flashed dangerously and Daud laughed, patting his shoulder as he leaned the chair back. 

“A joke, for first-timers.”

“Very funny,” Corvo growled, bristling. Daud put his hands up in surrender, but the emotion on his face… was it concern? A blink, and it was gone.

“Everyone's a critic. But please, do relax. If you jerk around or move, it will be more dangerous for you, and more of a liability for me. Besides, the goal is getting back to the girl in one piece, right?” 

His neck prickled but he sighed out, forcing his body to relax. The lather and brush were soft and he pulled his lips in as it kissed across his face. Daud moved his head as he needed, his hands warm even as the wrappings were rough. 

With Corvo unable to talk, Daud helped him relax by filling the silence in his ears. 

“I also had a daughter— crazy to think about, I know, since I never wooed someone with my dashing good looks.” Corvo huffed and Daud chastised, reminding him to stay still and relaxed. “She was… adopted. And if that's not the word, then I raised her when nobody else would.” 

Under Daud's hands Corvo's head moved. Then, under the soft lather, a touch of cold steel. 

Corvo felt the shiver down his spine and closed his eyes. The first swipe glided over his jaw with such precision he barely heard it, felt it. There was a brief pause as Daud cleaned the blade. 

“I tried to raise her right, the best I could, but outside forces worked their way into her heart. She didn't pass into the Void, but I haven't seen her in a decade.” 

Another touch, the steel warmer from the water Daud dipped it in, another swipe. One and done, right under Corvo's chin. He swallowed only after the blade lifted. 

“I'm sorry,” he tried. “I understand. They love to wander and create distance, no matter how hard you try to hold on.” 

“And holding on just makes it worse,” Daud growled out, the gravel returning to smooth his Serkonan. “The trials and tribulations of being a single father, wouldn't you agree?” 

He would, but had no ability to nod; Daud had gently grabbed his head, cradling him in one hand while the other expertly danced a knife across his skin. Corvo tried not to think too hard, not about how he was in the hands of a man who could so easily kill him, and was choosing not to. 

“I would,” Corvo eventually said, his voice rougher from his position. He peeked an eye open, looking for the blade. He was no stranger to the bite of steel on his skin, but as it neared his vulnerable neck, his eyes closed shut yet again. 

He hoped his pulse wasn't beating too visibly against his skin. 

“Are you that scared of a knife, Antonio?” The question isn't unkind. 

“Well, I've had my fair share of cuts, some of which were a bit too close to my neck for comfort.” 

Daud hummed, understanding. “The scars on your neck.” he swiped off more lather and stubble with a deft flick of a wrist. 

“Bingo.” 

“I can only imagine.” 

“Likewise.” 

Daud’s eyebrow raised, then his free hand scratched at his scar before cleaning the knife again. 

“It wasn't as bad as it looks, but I did get on the wrong end of a blade. I was told my eye was lucky to have survived.” 

“Was it actually a barber accident?” 

“Ah, no, that's just a funny bit,” Daud grinned, letting the scar pull. “You ever been in a slaughterhouse? Not many here in Cullero, and even less than that are operational. Regardless, I used to work in one, and there isn't a good worker’s comp should someone accidentally hit a saw, or if those large filet swords slipped. I had to deal with the latter. Got to help fast enough that I didn't bleed out, but it was close.” 

Corvo digested this story silently, unable to speak given the razor at his skin, making it prickle as it skimmed past. He half-listened, debating on if Daud was being truthful (but then again, was he?) while also marveling at his steady hand and ability with the steel so close and still so deadly. 

That same expertise killed his Empress, his love—

Suddenly everything felt a bit too close, too warm, too claustrophobic. Unable to move he grunted, his eyebrows knitting; Daud stilled, then gave him some space. 

“You alright? Do you need a break?” 

He's far enough away from the chair that Corvo can lean forward, regaining his breath. He breathed some more and nodded. Eyes still shut, he heard Daud walk off and around. 

“It's fine. Almost done; just a few swipes on your left cheek and I can clean you up.” 

Corvo nodded again, brow still furrowed. He resisted the urge to wipe his face and instead settled to flex his Marked hand, hearing a whisper of Void in his ears. He gulped, grounding himself, pulling himself back out of that place. 

No need to panic, he reminded himself. Not yet, anyway. 

“Just got a little claustrophobic,” he muttered apologetically, sitting back in the chair. Daud just nodded, silently going back to his work. Perhaps it was just Corvo's imagination, but his hands felt softer, holding him not just to steady his head but to calm any anxieties or fears. Reassurance, solid and grounding. He resisted the urge to lean into it. 

The next few passes of the straight razor happen in meditative silence, just the two of them. Daud hummed a little but his voice wasn't really built for it; still, Corvo recognised the tune. His eyes open and blink as he stared far off, not meeting Daud's eyes or even his own in the mirror. 

Then, just like that, the moment passed and the silence ended. A soft clean rag landed on his face, wiping away any residual lather. The chair is righted and the cloth is handed off to Corvo so he can finish wiping his face on his own time. 

“Alright, all finished up. Not too bad for your first time.” He clapped Corvo's shoulder companionably before going to clean his tools and clear his station. 

Corvo watched, entranced, wiping his face mechanically. Eventually he pulled the rag away and felt his dry, smooth skin, devoid of stubble. Unbidden, a small noise of approval escaped him. 

“Good work.”

“I pride myself on it.” 

“Steady hands, too.”

“My mother prided me on those.” 

The apron got pulled off and his shoulders brushed. A look over in the mirror and Corvo is more than assured that Emily will be happy with the result. 

“So, how much do I owe?” 

Daud made a non-committal noise as he seemed to mull that over. 

“Ten silver for the cut and shave.” As Corvo fished the money from his waist satchel, Daud just watched him, eyes scrutinous. “And a drink, too.” 

Corvo jerked, nearly dropping his coin. Quick reflexes honed from years of service (and a little inhuman Void) meant all were caught before they jumped from his hand, but now he hesitated to hand the coin over in the first place. 

No, is his instinctual response. What comes out is a broken, Gristolan, “Excuse me?” 

Daud had the gall to look amused, tossing his washcloth over his shoulder. 

“Don't get the wrong idea,” he said, his voice remaining Serkonan despite Corvo's slip into Gristolan. “You just look like you could use it. You're the jumpiest customer I've ever had around my straight razor, for one thing. I know it's not my place to pry, so I won't, but if you need to unwind and have someone to talk to about old aches, I'll be around.” 

Corvo's mouth ran dry. Against his better judgement, he felt himself nodding before handing over the coin. Daud put his hand out and they fell easily into his wrapped palm. Daud nodded too, counting the coin. 

“There's a winery down the way, has a bar for patrons in the back that's quiet. I tend to spend a little time there before heading home in the evenings.” 

Corvo found his voice again, making sure to keep himself in the less identifying language. “I can't tonight, I need to meet with my daughter, make sure I know which hotel we're staying in, get some rest, you know how it is.” 

“Of course. Tomorrow then, before Fugue starts?” 

“What time?” 

“Evening. Just go to the front of house and ask for Montague.” 

Corvo nodded dumbly again and Daud nodded curtly right back. There was a small smile, before he clapped Corvo on the shoulder again. “Well, have a good night, and enjoy Cullero.” 

He exited to the back to clean up, leaving Corvo to stand there until he walked out of the door, resisting the urge to stop time and run through the Void as fast as his powers could allow. 

------

 “Well don't you clean up so nicely!” Emily said, happily giving Corvo's fresh cheeks a pat. Without the stubble there his angles were sharp, his jaw was visible as it clenched in annoyance. He gently removed her hand while Alexi looked on, amused. 

“You say that like I never get a haircut or a shave,” he grumbled. “I know I clean up nicely, thank you very much.” 

“Well you don't do it nearly often enough. You clearly could benefit from a regular barber, I'll see what we can get set up with my stylist, perhaps they know someone…” 

“That's very unnecessary, Emily, but the thought is appreciated.” He let her down gently, his eyes tired but affectionate. “I'll simply have to find someone myself, since this cut needs to be maintained.” 

Her eyes sparkled. “So you do like it, then? Enough to keep it?” 

“For the time being, yes.” He huffed. “Now, don't you have other things to talk about besides me? Surely you found something fun to do today.”

They sat together in the parlor off the inn Jameson had found for them, conferring before they retired. Emily spoke of how they had found a shop for collectibles and had tried to speak Serkonan to the shop keep, who appeared delighted at the attempt but still kept them to their native tongue. They had also found a clothing shop, bought some things for the water, should they choose to go that way. 

“But what about you, Corvo? Any plans you have made yet?” 

He shifted, moving one ankle to rest on the knee of the other leg. 

“Probably just exploring some more, before heading to a winery to grab some drinks.”

“Oh, that sounds nice. Would you like us to meet you there? A winery in Cullero sounds like a nice change of pace compared to—”

“No,” he says almost too quickly, cutting her off. Emily, the Empress slipping out, looked at him in irritation. He ran fingers through his hair and immediately missed the longer strands. “It's just that I'm already meeting someone there.” 

The implication hangs in the air. Emily sat back, her agitated expression morphing into something more knowing. 

“Oh, so you have a date.” Her grin spread and Corvo felt the cold trickle down his spine.

“Not like that, Emily. You know I'm not interested in anything after losing your mother.” 

“Are you sure? Not even a little fling? Fugue doesn't count, you know.” Alexi wiped the smile off her mouth as Emily egged her father on. 

Corvo, however, just sighed like the weight of the Isles was on his shoulders (and more often than not, it was). “The barber asked me out for drinks. Apparently I'm so stiff even a total stranger noticed.”

“Just like that? He asked you out?” 

“No, Emily, Outsider’s eyes, can a man not have a friend outside of work?” 

The word stuck oddly in his craw and he nearly swallowed it down again. Friend? Daud? Those were not two words he ever thought to associate with each other. But Emily also didn't need to know that her mother's killer was in this busy beach town. So, friend it was. For now, anyway. 

Or at least, until Daud gave him a reason to think otherwise. 

At least his response seemed to acquiesce her. She backed off, raising her hands in a sign for peace.

“You know what, Corvo, you are right. That's on me for jumping to conclusions. But I do have to say, it's not like you to even make friends in work, either, so I'm happy no matter what. You deserve more companions in your life, even if it's temporary.”

After that, the conversation moved on, meandering until the individual parties got tired and moved to their respective rooms. Corvo left too, but instead of sleeping, he slipped out the balcony of his space, using his powers to silently Blink to the roof and watch the lights of Cullero as they flickered and danced in the hot summer night. 

-------

Evening came with a speed Corvo didn't expect. His day had flown by as he did his own personal version of sight-seeing; rooftop hopping. Nearing 50, he sometimes entertained the idea that he was getting too old for such acrobatics, but the Void kept his body supple and his footing sure. It was hard to fear falling when he could simply suspend himself midair and jump to the next perch. The harder part was simply doing it without drawing a ton of attention, but once he found a route it made for a beautiful way to traverse the city. 

A tiring one as well, a side effect that he hoped would be an acceptable excuse for when he would need to slip out from… whatever this impending conversation was going to be. 

He could be cordial, he was sure. Just another mask, just another undercover part to play. He just needed to watch himself a little more carefully in a casual setting, especially when drinks or smoke was involved. 

As evening came, Corvo watched the barbershop, waiting to see Daud— Montague— exit and make his way to the designated meetup spot. The winery was not far down and it was the same one Corvo suspected; surreptitiously, he Blinked through the Void, landing in a back alley before emerging into the small tricklings of Cullero nightlife. He waited a few minutes before approaching the establishment himself, walking through to the bar and asking after Montague like instructed. 

Corvo was led back through some shuttered doors to a parlor behind the bar. It was clear there was food and smoke as well as wine here; they dodged two waiters as he was led back to a quiet booth in the corner, secluded and sequestered from the noise of the larger parties. 

Daud is already there, eying the drink selection, small readers balanced on his face. Corvo swallowed and took his seat as the bartend took a bow. Daud looked up, eyebrow quirked at Corvo (who smiled meekly back and adjusted his vest) and gave an order for their first round. 

“A bottle of your house wine, please,” he murmured, and the bartend nodded and headed back to grab their drinks. He turned to Corvo, his Serkonan coming out silky smooth, even with his vocal grit. “If you're hungry, they have very good charcuterie here. Not the blood sausages of Karnaca, but, I hope you can forgive them for that.” 

“Well, better to taste something local, isn't it?” he offered up a tight smile, before letting out a careful breath. Still, Daud didn't stop eying him. Corvo squirmed under the attention. “Do I have something on my face?” 

Daud chuckled. “I know you can relax but I'd have never believed it if I didn't see it yesterday. Would you like me to also recommend some public baths after this, if the wine doesn't calm you down?” 

Corvo let out a laugh, feeling some of the tension leaving him in response. “I think the drink will suffice, but it is just how I am. My life has never allowed me to relax, and I don't have much of a social life back home. My daughter is always trying to get me to make friends, but I never have the time.”

“What, are you a hermit?”

“No, no, I see plenty of people for my job. But that is the crux of it; seeing a lot of people daily doesn't really leave me interested in going out and seeing more people, or trying to make friends.”

“Never had colleagues?”

Corvo shrugged as the tender came back with their wine. It was a sharp red, bottled five years prior. Corvo put in his order for the charcuterie and let Daud pour him a drink. 

“Thanks.” 

“I'm open to getting a second bottle if you're interested in trying something different.” 

“Oh, I don't plan on drinking that much.”

Daud once again gives him a weird look. 

“You would take the bottle home with you, Antonio,” he said evenly. “Or I would, if you don't like it. I use it in cooking.” 

“Oh, of course.” 

Daud sampled his wine, watching the crowd with a curious eye. 

“So not many friends, not many colleagues, don't get out much, stiff on vacation. I'm guessing a military man, then?” 

Leave it to the greatest assassin of their age to suss something like that so quickly. Corvo's mouth twitched up at the corner. 

“I used to work for the Duke, actually. Before I was sent to Dunwall. Specialized in guardwork for over thirty years, so it's no surprise my daughter is pushing for my retirement. I told her I'm not that old yet, but she worries.”

“Dunwall? So she lived through the rat plague?” Corvo nodded, trying the wine in his glass as well. It was a smooth blend, good aromatics and it sat pleasantly on the tongue. It was nice enough to try again and with slightly more enthusiasm. 

“It was a tough time for everyone, it was… how we lost her mother. Almost got her too, but the cure came in time for her at least.” His mouth quirked up more. “Guess that's why I'm so protective. It's a big step for both of us for her to be doing her own thing while I do mine.” 

Daud makes a low noise of understanding. “Aha, so that's what's got you so stiff. You're worrying too much about her. Take it from me, it'll be good for you both in the end. It's like holding on too tightly to a cat; you end up scratched and the cat running away.” 

He pulled out a cigar from his pocket and Corvo noticed his hands covered with gloves today, well-fitted leather with a small amount of give on his wrist. Between his fingers sat a cigar, fresh from the tin. Balanced perfectly, he held it out to Corvo. 

“Do you smoke?” He asked casually.

“Not cigars, but as the saying goes, when in Wei-Ghon.” He held out a hand and Daud gave him a stick after lighting his own, passing the match onto Corvo once his was lit. 

The smoke curls lazily between them as patrons walk through and chatter in the background. The noise and the smoke and the companionable silence; it's enough to ease into (for one evening, at least), to relax just enough to fall into the rhythm, to forget the world for a while. 

Their plate of food came and it’s enough to rouse Corvo to thank the waiter and start picking. Cheese, meats, pickles, fish, olives, bread, nuts and berries; the board was a plethora of local delicacies of which Corvo indulges decadently. 

His wrapped hand itched. As if pulled by an unseen force, he looked over, noticing Daud watching him. The look isn't hard or cold, despite his eyes; instead it's studious, understanding, maybe even empathetic.

“I used to be pretty wound up too, you know. Always looking over my shoulder, second guessing everything and everyone. It got particularly bad the years after my girl left. Had to learn how to uncoil… I'm pretty on top of it these days and when I can't, nothing a little smoke can't fix.” He nodded to the wine. “Is it good or do you want to try a different flavor?” 

Corvo just looked, watching the man named Daud as he bared himself to Corvo, completely vulnerable. Had leaving Dunwall had that strong of an effect on him? And had he spent years thinking Corvo would come and hunt him down, off him even as he stood? Truthfully despite everything, once Corvo knew Daud was out of Dunwall he had thought nothing of finding Daud; even this moment was a crazy happenstance. He played with the cracker in his hand, before taking a small bite. 

“The wine is fine. The smoke’s better.” There's an apologetic smile. “I've never really been the drinking type, so I'll be surprised if I have more than the glass.” 

He sat back, taking another drag. His head shook and he suddenly wished that he still had a curtain of long hair to hide behind. 

“Truth be told, I'm not sure why I agreed to buy you a drink. It's not like I'm looking for a friend, and you're a barber. It felt right to accept, and an insult if I refused.” 

“I only asked because I sensed a kindred spirit in you. Turns out I wasn't too far off the mark.” 

The word choice prickled on his skin like the itch of the Void in his hand. A strange emotion bubbled up, and he can't stop himself from asking,

“What made you move to Cullero?” 

Ash tips into the tray. “When my girl left, I needed to feel something, anything, like family. So I came home, and it welcomed me with open arms. It took time, longer than I'd like to admit, but there's very little the Serkonan sun can’t heal. Even if it is just a disaster for my complexion, not that I have much of that left.” He motioned to his scar, mouth twitching into a sharp grin. Eyes closed, he pulled on the cigar, his own worries with the day coiling up in the smoky atmosphere. 

The image was mesmerizing. Corvo couldn't tear his eyes away; while Daud was lost in his own thoughts and memories, Corvo studied him in turn, everything about the moment wrestling with memory. The Daud he had known was serious, stiff, scowling. Here, with wine, food, easy music and the murmurings of conversation hiding him from everyone but Corvo, even his scar lines smoothed. Yes, the wrinkles were still there, but the edges were blunted. 

Or perhaps, more accurately, polished. 

It suddenly hit Corvo like a bullet and he's animated once again, a smooth motion to call over a waitstaff. A small quiet exchange, then the staff was gone again. The movement caused Daud's eyes to open, refocusing, his confusion— or perhaps, suspicion— apparent. 

“Decide on something else?” 

It is Corvo's turn to smirk, the emotion behind it more playful as he rests his chin in his hand. “You'll have to forgive me. I remember you telling me I owed you a drink, so I made sure to pick up the tab. As well as take a bottle to go. My daughter was upset enough when I told her she wasn't coming along, so might as well procure her a consolation prize.” 

“Antonio, that's thoughtful, but the line was simply to get you here, I would rather treat a guest than have them feel it necessary to—” 

But Corvo raised a hand to silence him, ignoring the itch from the wrapped hand under the table. 

“The cigar is more than enough. Though, I can't help but wonder if there isn't a hookah back here, and if you ever indulge?” 

Daud huffed. “I think you overestimate how well-off this establishment is. This is still the resort area of town, but it's not royalty. They that fancy in Dunwall?” 

Corvo clicked his mouth shut. Perhaps he didn't mingle enough with the regulars, to realize hookah was not as readily available as he was used to. “Only in the brothels,” he joked, to cover himself up. It worked, with Daud just shaking his head. 

“The fanciest Dunwall has to offer,” he growled. 

Corvo smiled, leaning back to finish the cigar, as well as his single glass of wine. “This was a good suggestion, thank you Montague,” and he is shocked to hear himself truly mean it. “I'm not one for the crowds, and I'm sure my daughter will disappear with this coming bottle of wine for the rest of the Fugue, so do you have any places to hole up until it passes?” 

“Hole up? You mean you won't be out there, enjoying yourself?” 

Corvo barked out a laugh. “I haven't ‘enjoyed’ a Fugue since my wife passed, and I hold no delusions of that changing. This is as rowdy as I tend to get.” 

A muscle worked in the shadow of Daud's jaw, causing his scar to grimace. Corvo could feel his eyes boring into him, feel the scrutiny, and could feel his stomach coiling in response to whatever the assassin was thinking of saying next. 

“If you are that curious,” he started, his voice a low murmur that is much more reminiscent of the dangerous voice Corvo remembered, “then I can hand you an address. Go there, watch, stay as long as you like. No obligations, and it'll run all Fugue.” He dug into his jacket's inner pocket, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. Interestingly, his eyes darted to the other patrons before scribbling something down. Curiosity piqued, Corvo couldn't help but lean over the table, looking as casual as he could while being as intent on Daud as possible. 

“All of Fugue? But doesn't it start in just a few hours?” 

Daud shrugged and gave a stiff grin. The paper was ripped from the backing and handed to Corvo casually. He takes the paper with a deft and silent movement, not even looking at it. 

“Come whenever. Stay until it ends. Or don't. But I recommend sleeping first, it can go for a while.”

“As curious as I am, I don't like walking into something blind. What exactly is this event?” 

Daud breathed deep. “It's a bit of gambling I partake in every Fugue. It's grown a good amount over the years, so it may be something you enjoy. And if not, well, there are some spots up in the highland trails that are nice and quiet. I could show you those too, if you'd like.”

Corvo is silent for a moment, studying more of Daud's face than he has in a while. His instincts were telling him that this is very clearly a trap, which makes it all the more reason to check out whatever this situation is. But more importantly, if it was a trap, did that mean his cover was blown? He gave truthful information; maybe somewhere down the line, Daud had put two and two together. 

Daud met his eye and held the stare even steadier than his hands. Corvo's knuckles rapped against the table. 

“This is an awful lot of attention to give to a total stranger, a complete passer-by.” 

“Like I said. Just a feeling. Kindred spirits.” 

The bartender dropped the new bottle of wine off and bowed back out. Corvo, coming to terms with this, nodded and smiled, thanking the tender. 

“Well, then, I hope you make this worth my time, Barber Montague.” 

The Knife of Dunwall grinned so fiercely Corvo felt like a fly caught in a spider's trap.