#mutedaggression

There's several people from several different places that prowl these streets. Learning that they've all been pulled from somewhere else to populate this place... Daud had a hard time conceiving that this may be an afterlife.

Purchasing a pack of cigarettes from a bodega, he steps out to the curb, scanning around before breaking the pack open and withdrawing a single rod to light.

No one knew him here, either. No one knew anything about the Isles of the Empire, of Dunwall. No one knew the Knife.

He'd learned early on in the days of his exile that being around people didn't agree with him.

But these people? There were warriors here, soldiers, fighters... and then there were his people. Mercenaries, assassins...

One such person around read that way to him, shaped leather cuirass, tanned skin, scars, cropped blue-tinted hair. When you're in the business that long, it becomes a sort of instinct. The wiry build, the way eyes studied him, and the way this man kept his sword arm free...

And something he couldn't quite explain. That gut-feeling that someone was a killer.

Good company.

The old assassin chances approaching the man watching him, and decides to make an acquaintance. Rebuilding contacts would be a hassle.

location: general area, the mistwood

ʚїɞ - While her ability to use flying magic was still limited, Fern always made sure to use it when traveling outside of the city. There were monsters lurking in the branches. It was dangerous, which was something she was reminded of when she heard a man's cry. She stopped midair so that she could find the source.

There. A man engaged with one of those living tree monsters. His cry hadn't been one of pain or fear, but perhaps he'd shouted while attacking or being attacked. Either way, the tree lunched at a man with its heavy branches aimed at his head.

But they were blocked by a barrier made of hexagonal segments that had appeared in front of him as Fern levitated downwards to float slightly above him.

He spat it as he gestured hither and to, a spectral, skeletal hand plucking up strings of obnoxious lights and garlands while spiders under his suggestion were running decorations into all sorts of places. The rail thin suggestion of a man had pinned his hair back with a wooden clip. He'd changed his clothing out for more fitting fair, a long sleeved black jacket and thin black shirt and pants. He'd switched his vestment adornments for a hanging leather braid over his shoulders, most of his reagents for simple spells tied into it.

"Well, perhaps it would be a perfect time for a ritual if the general insanity of the space is claiming the spectral and the material be thinned enough to allow demons to cross between spaces so easily. Feh."

Enki gestured with his remaining hand at the empty-but-for them first floor.

"Marks to Sylvian in this place indeed capture enough power to do that."

he's definitely trying to subtly lean in and see what enki is doing over his shoulder, because enki has the torchlight and he doesn't want to wander too far with the. . .noises in the distance.

He tries to ignore him. Oh, he tries so hard. The only light of the room in his hand, an ancient book in the other, brought closer to his face as he tries to read through ancient words and decipher the mysteries hidden through torn out and bloody pages, Enki had to count to ten once.

Twice.

At the third, as he feels the eyes of the mercenary making holes on the back of his head, he snaps the book shut, inhaling sharply.

He'd walked in tandem with his guest, Cahara of the South, to meet with their prospective employer this day, the mysterious Ada Wong, who's aim to become a Madame on this lane was clearly only part of her ambitions.

The rest involved consolidation of power from other major players that were there long before any of them.

So, caution and the skills of trained professionals were necessary traits. And he'd only observed them in this other mercenary.

Daud stepped inside the buildings, the open space with support beams and tarps over areas to catch debris. He led the mercenary to the far end at the back of the space.

"I've brought the mercenary I spoke of," he calls out, "Cahara of the South."

"Guess what's back."

A casual look over his shoulder told him more than enough. There it was, the signature cruciform shape of his pupils. The glow of the stone was brilliant. Enki could feel, even from here, the radial magic of the secondary soul pulsing, and vibrating through his body.

It had been a very long time since he had felt that choleric, avenging magic. Even now, it sent a tremble through his spine.

"The White Angel. Returned to you at last. For me, it has been four centuries since I've seen the vengeful spirit. It seems just as restless as it has ever been."

It is powerful. He could feel impending action coming from it. Cahara drew Enki's full attention, and his deeply critical eyes were not so much today.