(100 words each. Related but not directly sequential.)
They say that wolves haunt the streets of Dunwall, and by day they wear the faces of men.
Heretic's talk, of course.
The wealthy and powerful know that anything can be bought in this city, even life and death. They seek the killers in their dens and swallow back their old, primal fears. Because the stories are just that, and it's silly to believe in tall tales past childhood.
Sometimes the job is done cleanly, with poison or a blade slid neatly through the heart.
Sometimes, on the nights around the brightest moon, men die with their throats torn out.
Billie came to him with death in her eyes and blood in her teeth.
Sometimes he thinks she must have been born like that, a wolf long before he turned her.
He taught her to hunt with blade and fang, sank his teeth into her flesh when the moon swelled and watched the change rush through her. She took to it better than most, and even now he can't help but admire her mastery of it.
Even now, as Billie stands over Whaler corpses and snarls her challenge at him. There is death in her eyes, blood in her teeth.