@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.
"So, you think this place is an afterlife?" he asks, "You've got a touch of death on you... You fight for coin?"
