In all honesty, Corvo thought he had already lived through the worst day of his life the day Jessamine was killed right and Emily was taken in front of him, while he was powerless to stop either. Two steps - and he would remember that for the rest of his days. Two steps to the left was all it would have taken for him to be ready. For Jessamine to live. And Coldridge... Coldridge had felt deserved, even if he hadn't been the one wielding the blade. Punishment. Penance. He'd had one task, one purpose, and he'd just let her die. But despite that, and with some help on the way, he'd eventually fixed the one mistake he had been able to, half a year later: He'd found Emily, he'd brought her home, kept her safe.
So when, a few months ago, he'd woken up to her missing, Corvo could have sworn his heart had stopped beating.
No. No, not again, not again. Not her, please, hadn't she been through enough? Couldn't it just be enough? For a few hours, he'd lived in hope that she'd just snuck off into the city. She did, sometimes, and he let her, using it as an opportunity for her to test her sneaking - and for him to test his tracking. But the only tracks he had found were those of a scuffle by her window, scratches on the sill, and a few stray hints leading towards the docks, and then... nothing. And he'd barely slept since.
It had taken a lot of effort to find more leads. Where the boat had come from, nobody knew, but when he finally found a sailor sober enough to remember it, the description didn't sound like it hailed from Gristol or Serkonan - the only two styles he would have recognised. It sounded like a heavier vessel, sturdy, spiked and with more masts than anything he was familiar with. A blade on the whole length of the bow. After some research, he'd learned that it was meant to break ice as the ship made progress, same with the spikes. It was built and intended for frozen waters, and that meant the high north of Tyvia. He had been north once in his life, accompanying Jessamine, but they had never set foot anywhere north of Tamarak. The ship the sailor had seen had come from Meya, if not even further beyond.
It answered the question of who, at least. A few months ago, operatives wearing something that still vaguely resembled Holger's Mask had ambushed him on the way back to the tower. They'd had no music boxes, but flutes instead, though the effect had felt similar, and Corvo had been grateful he'd kept his sword on him that night. Not that he took it off often, but there were days.
... there had been days. No longer.
He had gotten some insight from the contents of their pockets: They were Overseers, or at least a branch descended from what he knew as Overseers, born from a group of them that had set off to tame the Tyvian wilds decades ago and stayed there. They had done their own research into the Void there, unobserved and unhindered by having to keep a presence in society, with dangerous results... and the wilderness of Tyvia had only doubled their fanaticism to a point where, once news of Empress Emily Kaldwin's ascent to the throne had spread and the rumours of it having been accomplished through darker powers had followed, they had set their sights on Dunwall, and Corvo specifically. He hadn't been naïve enough to assume they wouldn't try again, but even in his worst fears, he hadn't dared think that, one day, they would take his daughter. The last good thing he had left, the only good thing he had left. Everything that meant anything to him. They knew he would follow to get her back, just like he'd followed Daud, the Pendletons, Burrows, the Loyalists. They knew it was only a matter of time until he came to them, now.
And he had tried. He had, with all of his resources and skill, found a ship willing to take him as far as Dabokva, and from there, tried the rest on foot, but winter had Tyvia hard in its grasp, and the farther he had gotten, the more strength it had cost him, until he'd had to admit to himself that, yes, he could get there, but he was battling his way into the lion's den, and every step took more strength than he could afford to spend. There would be a fight at the end of his path, one against people who knew his powers and how to counter them, and if that didn't work, with an ace up their sleeve he was powerless against, because all it would take was a knife to Emily's throat, and the fight would be over.
He couldn't do it alone. He needed more hands. Another sword. Eyes like his own.
Over the years, he had kept a vague eye and ear on Daud (@facetedspades), as time passed more and more just out of habit than concern. It wasn't a pinpoint location, but enough for a start, enough to have somewhere to turn and a flicker of hope to go on, and that was all he had ever needed. All he could have hoped for. From there, he'd found stories, whispers of the arcane, of things not adding up, of a witch haunting these parts. Breadcrumbs, that had eventually led him to a cabin near a small forest.
And there he was, eyes taking in everything about the building at a glance as he followed the pathway up to the door, loosely outlined by rocks along the sides, past a crude table and up on the porch. The owner of the cabin had clearly never intended for multiple people to be living with him, or anyone to really come visit. Everything about the place spelled private and if times had been different, Corvo would have left him to it. He had no real desire to see the murderer of his love again, even if he had kept his word and laid low, but he was heading into a fight that took more than he had, and nobody not touched by the Void would do. This was the only place he could have gone...
