Years before the events of Dishonored, major events are afoot in the city of Dunwall. An Overseer conspiracy, Slackjaw's rise to power, and a certain supernatural assassin's arrival to the city are about to get twisted up like a bag of snakes.
Tales of Dunwall
Prologue
Joy. Pure, unadulterated joy. That was the only way to describe what poor old Lazov felt when he found it.
He had been walking home after another day of working in the Slaughterhouse of Sylvio Herrara. Herrara had not inherited the keys to the biggest butchery operation in Dunwall from his family. Indeed, he had no family to speak of. He fought for every single scrap he got, and by all accounts he had earned his place at the top. But, rather than making him more sensitive to the plight of many of his employees, Herrara's journey had turned him into the meanest son of a bitch this side of the Wrenhaven River.
Lazov had never had much luck in his pitiful life. Not in school, not with women, and especially not with money. After years of working odd jobs in just about every low-rent industry Dunwall had to offer, Lazov barely had two coins to scrape together. It was for this reason that he stayed at the Slaughterhouse, taking the abuse of Herrara and his butchers, and waiting for the day when he would see his fortunes shift in the stars. Until today, that is. For today, Lazov had found the key to ending his lifetime of poverty.
He was on John Clavering Boulevard, making his way past the row of houses and offices belonging to his more affluent neighbors and to the decrepit quarter of the Distillery District that he called home. He saw something glinting in the bushes lining the last house on the block, something that looked white as bone. Looking around to make sure that no one was observing him, Lazov stepped over and threw his arm into the bush, rummaging downward for the foreign object that had caught his eye. His hand met something hard as stone, and he quickly pulled it out.
Lazov couldn't believe his luck. He was holding a piece of what looked to be pure whale bone, carved neatly into a circle. It had intricate markings all on its front, a black circle surrounded by lines of varying lengths and positions. Lazov had heard tell of items like this before. Supposedly, they were called runes. Many of the Old Families of Dunwall had possessed runes just like this, but most of them had been scattered to the winds after the Old Families were forcibly removed from their mansions and exiled from the city during the Commoners' Revolt.
And for all that upheaval, nothing really changed, Lazov mused to himself. Still, he found that he was elated. Lazov had an idea of just how much coin some of the nobles of Dunwall would pay for a rune like this one. He would be able to finally quit Herrara's damned Slaughterhouse, maybe even open some sort of small business of his own. But first, he had to get his precious rune home. Lazov could see a City Watchman approaching out of the corner of his eye. From experience, he knew that the patrolmen didn't like seeing a member of the working class loitering in this part of the District, and they tended to ask people like him to leave with a boot to the groin. Lazov hurriedly made his way towards the hovel he called home, hiding the rune in his coat all the while.
But as he sat at the little table in his one-room shanty, a different class of thought entered his mind. Why should some noble have this rune? It was precious, more precious than coin or anything else. Lazov knew what he had to do. He had to guard this rune with his life, had to make sure that no one else would ever get their grubby hands on it. Outsider. The word came unbidden into his mind. True, he had never been the religious sort, but he did tend to take the threat of the Overseers seriously. Damn the Overseers, Lazov thought, I dedicate this rune, and my life, to the Outsider. Happiness once again filled Lazov's addled mind. He began to think about erecting a small shrine to the Outsider in one corner of his hovel. Oh, how glorious it will be!
Every thought fled Lazov's brain, and the happiness faded from his face when he felt the press of cold steel against his neck. A flick of a wrist, a blinding flash of pain, a red mist exploding from his throat. And then, darkness.