Chapter I: The Scrimshander's Folly

In the right pair of hands, bones can sing their secrets. No one knew that better than Bram "Patches" Hayhurst. Morley-born but Dunwall-raised, he had left the city four years ago, with two working legs and almost a full set of teeth, which was more than could be said for him now. The sea had taken its payment for the Whales he had helped dredge up from its hungry depths, and then some.
No captain wanted a man with such ill luck aboard his ship, and Bram couldn't face waving his cap on the streets of the Tower District, so he spent the last of his severance on cheap booze and dog fights, and resigned himself to his misery. That was until he saw the advertisement.

It was a small, plain block of text on a grease-spattered sheet of newspaper the pub had used to wrap his battered hagfish. Bram might have missed it entirely, had his gaze not happened to fall on it at the right moment.

WANTED: a scrimshander of exceptional talent, to chronicle the history of a great noble family of Dunwall. Liberal wages and comfortable lodgings will be given. Apply to Lady Beverly Lancaster, of Lancaster Estate, Greasely Blvd.

Bram knew how to coax secrets out of bones (Outsider knew he preferred dead Whales to live ones). Scrimshaw had taken on a curious popularity with the old money families of the Isles. Their histories, though often murky, set them apart from the bourgeoisie, and they leapt at any opportunity to showcase them.
Of course, the paper was old - Bram didn't know if the job was still open, but it was too good an opportunity to miss. No matter how humble these 'lodgings' were, they couldn't be worse than the rat-infested boarding house he was staying in.

The very next morning, he polished his crutch, put on his smartest boot and least-patched coat, and hobbled over to Greasely Boulevard. He knocked on the door of the Lancaster estate.
He didn't know what to expect, a butler perhaps, or a maid to answer the door. He certainly hadn't expected the old lady who opened it. She was waif-thin, dressed in dusty finery. She peered at him with rheumy eyes. Taken aback, Bram could only stare dumbly at her.

"I'm here about the advertisement in the paper," he explained, then repeated himself as the crone cupped a hand to her ear.

"Oh," she said, her face creasing into a smile. "How wonderful! I was beginning to think my advertisement would never be answered!"
Now, Bram thought this odd, for there were many scrimshanders in Dunwall, many looking for honest work since the Abbey of the Everyman had severely restricted their trade. But he didn't want to offend the withered creature before she introduced him to Lady Lancaster, so he held his tongue.
His confusion must have been plain on his face, for the ancient woman stared at him oddly for a moment, as if she had read his thoughts. Then she threw her head back and cackled with laughter.
"Oh, my dear boy," she said, seeing Bram's bewildered expression, "I am Lady Lancaster." She beckoned him in, and despite his burning embarrassment, Bram followed her.
"It's a big, empty house for an old woman to live in all alone," she said as she led him to a cosy parlour, with a roaring fire blazing in the hearth. "With a few servants for company, of course," she added as an afterthought. "But I get by. I'm the last descendant of the Lancaster line."

Ah, thought Bram, she wants her family's stories inscribed before she dies. Lady Lancaster gave him a shrewd look, and for the second time Bram wondered if she could read his thoughts.
"Before I agree to hire you," she said, "I want to see what you can do. Carve one of my stories for me, and I shall see if you are worthy to be my scrimshander."
Bram was pleased; he had brought his scribe in the hopes that Lady Lancaster would ask him to display his talent. So he took a seat and let her place a smooth piece of Whalebone on his knee. Then, she settled in an overstuffed armchair, scratching her wrinkled cheek.
"I have so many stories," she said, half to herself. "Oh, how they weigh on these weary bones of mine. Which one shall I give you?"
Now, Bram thought this was a strange way to put it, but he didn't want to interrupt before she had even started, so again he held his tongue. Soon enough, Lady Lancaster took a deep breath, and began her tale.
"When I was just a wee girl, I took a walk along the Wrenhaven riverside…"

Bram shut his eyes and let the old woman's words wash over him, and as the story took shape images formed behind his eyelids. Slowly, as if in a daze, he bent his head and began to carve.
The next thing he knew, he snapped awake, cheeks burning with shame. He had fallen asleep through Lady Lancaster's story! Inwardly cursing himself, he looked up to find her smiling at him. Was it a trick of the light, or was she sitting up straighter, her eyes a little brighter?

"May I see your work?" she asked, and Bram's heart sank. She would be so disappointed. He looked down at the unfinished scrimshaw in his lap and gave a start - a fully formed picture stared up at him - a perfect likeness of the banks of the Wrenhaven, as seen from the Estate District. There was Kaldwin's Bridge, and the distant chimneys of the Draper's Ward. And there, in the water, was a pale face lurking just beneath the surface of the river. He looked closer - it was a woman, wearing what looked like a mourning dress, her dark hair curled around her like riverweed.
Bram's heart beat faster against his chest. How had he done that? He couldn't remember a single word of the story Lady Lancaster had told him. Dumbfounded, he handed the Whalebone to the old lady, who examined it closely, her face breaking into a smile.
"Yes, this is perfect!" she said gleefully. "Such fine work, and so quick! Already I can feel the weight of it lifted from my shoulders."

She insisted on hiring him on the spot, pressing a heavy purse of coins into his hands for the work he'd done. Then she showed him to the room where he would be staying. Bram thought this was odd, for she had mentioned that she had servants, but his mind was still reeling from his bizarre experience, and the purse sat heavy in his pocket, so he held his tongue.
The room was sparse, but a far cry from the damp, noisome boarding house. Bram felt strangely exhausted, as if he had spent all day hauling Whales from the ocean. He lay down in his new bed, and promptly fell asleep.

He slept through the evening and well into the next morning, and dreamt of pale girls floating just beneath the surface of the Wrenhaven's murky waters, their soulless eyes boring into his. When he awoke, he felt a weariness that hadn't been there before. This was odd, but he was eager to get to work again and earn another fat purse of coins, so he told himself he was imagining things, and made himself get up.

"I have another tale for you today," Lady Lancaster told him after breakfast. She brought him into the little parlour again and presented him with another piece of Whalebone. Bram was beginning to doubt that his success the day before had been anything but a fluke, so he was determined to stay awake this time and do the job properly. He sat, ramrod-straight, with his scribe in one hand and the Whalebone in the other.
"Once, when I was younger, and still learning the ways of the world," Lady Lancaster began, "I found a mudlark combing the riverbank for buried treasure…"

Bram came to with a start at the sound of his scribe dropping to the floor, and bit back a curse. He had fallen asleep again! The fire had burned low in the hearth, and the sun had sunk behind the curtains, casting the room in gloomy shadows. Lady Lancaster didn't seem to have noticed - she simply held out an expectant hand. Kicking himself, Bram could hardly bring himself to look at his work, but once again he found a finished scrimshaw sitting in his lap. This time, it showed a little boy in a flat cap and dirty overalls, clutching something protectively to his chest. When Lady Lancaster saw it, once again she broke into a wide smile.

"Yes, that's exactly right!" she crowed. "You truly are a wonderful craftsman!" She pressed another fat purse of coins into Bram's hand. Bram couldn't be sure if it was the poor light, but the creases around her eyes seemed a little less severe, her skin a little less pallid.

That night, Bram dreamed of a young boy digging in the wet mud of the Wrenhaven. As he approached, the boy pulled something free of the mud and huddled over it possessively, glaring at Bram with startling ferocity. When Bram awoke, he felt the chill of the morning in his bones, and he was somehow even wearier than the day before. He knew it was odd, but he liked the way the two purses of coins jingled when he held them, and he didn't want to go back to the boarding house, so he pushed his doubts aside.

Over the next few weeks, Bram and Lady Lancaster settled into a routine. Each day the old woman would tell him another story, and Bram would carve it, although he couldn't remember a word of what she had said. Each night he had the strangest dreams, and woke up feeling more tired than ever, despite sleeping the whole night through. His strong hands grew wrinkled and thin, and a deep weariness settled into his bones. Grey streaks appeared in his hair and beard, and when the light faded each evening he found himself squinting in the poor light.

On the other hand, Beverly Lancaster seemed to fill with more vigour each day. Her hair darkened from silvery grey to black, and her cheeks filled out and took on a healthy shade. She no longer shuffled about the estate, but glided through its halls with unearthly grace.
Her transformation filled Bram with unease, and his doubts began to pile up faster than he could dismiss them. Why, he wondered, did he never see the servants she had mentioned? The place was kept clean and meals were always ready on the table, but Bram had never so much as caught a glimpse of another soul beside himself and the Lady. Nor had he heard a footstep in the hall, or the creak of a door.

It also occurred to him that he had never heard the name Lancaster spoken on Dunwall's streets, or read about them in any of the gossip pages. He reminded himself that it was a dwindling family line, that the old woman was a recluse, but the more he tried to push these questions aside, the worse they plagued him.
One night he could stand it no more. He snuck into Lady Lancaster's library and pulled down her copy of the Nobilis Libris, the book of aristocratic houses of Dunwall. It made no mention of the Lancasters. Clearly they were not the 'great, noble family' the advertisement had claimed.

He would confront her, he decided, and get some answers. But when the so-called Lady summoned Bram to the parlour the next morning, she greeted him not with a smile and a new piece of Whalebone, but the Nobilis Libris, which she held in a white-knuckled grasp. She fixed him a glare so stony his questions tangled and dried up in his throat.

"You make too free with my hospitality, scrimshander," she said, her voice like ice. "From now on, my library is off-limits, and you may not wander about after dark. Instead, you will retire directly to your room, and not emerge again until sunrise." She had never expressly forbidden Bram to visit her library, and he felt she was being bitterly unfair, but a deep fear had crept into his heart, and his tongue felt like a slab of raw meat in his mouth.

Lady Lancaster dismissed him with no story, and Bram returned to his room. He knew that he could not stay another moment in this mansion, with its unsettling stories, and the servants he had never seen. He packed his scant belongings and the hefty sack of coins he had earned, and waited until dark. Then, when the last of the lamplight faded from the crack under his door, he stole from his room and hobbled as quietly as he could out into the hall.

Bram thought he knew the manor well, but it seemed to take on a different shape in the dark. He took one wrong turn, then another, until he was all turned around. His bearings lost, he found himself in an entirely different wing of the old house. These halls didn't seem to have been lived in for years; the furniture was covered in sheets like funeral shrouds, and the air was thick with dust and mildew. Nevertheless he pressed on, hoping to find a hallway that would lead him back to familiar ground.

At last he came to a dead end, with a vault-like door he had not seen before. Cast from iron, it stood a few inches ajar. A strange sound emanated from beyond it, a crooning song that urged him to come closer. Bram had the prickling feeling that the house had wanted him to come this way, that it had shepherded him here. Not seeing any other option but to go back the way he came, he curled his fingers around the edge of the door and slipped inside.

Bone charms.

There were mountains of them; they lined shelves, spilled from cupboards, and lay in gleaming piles across the floor. Their song filled Bram's head and rattled his teeth. They were carved with scrimshaw, not only by his hand but countless others. Bram knew with a creeping certainty that they were not only carved from the bones of Whales.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" said Lady Lancaster. Bram fair leapt out of his skin, for she had stolen up behind him as silently as a shadow.

"What are you?" he forced out through chattering teeth. Beverly Lancaster sighed and gave him a mournful, sharp-toothed smile.

"I have lived for so long, and the weight of all my stories settles into my bones. When they become too much to bear, I find a scrimshander to take some of that burden from me. Then, they too become part of my history." She made an elegant gesture, indicating the vast collection of bone charms. "All of this bolsters the magic The Outsider has granted me."

Bram had heard enough. Giving the witch a mighty shove, he dove past her in a frantic attempt to escape. But Beverly Lancaster was no longer old or frail - she moved like a Pandyssian cat stalking its prey. With his missing leg and weary bones, and the weight of all of her stories, all Bram could manage was a desperate, painful hobble. He watched with horror as the vault door swung slowly, inexorably shut.

When Bram's hoarse screams finally died away, the only sound remaining was the bone charms, ceaselessly singing their stories into the dark.