A/N: Phew, five years since the last update. Hopefully someone's still around to enjoy it!

A few changes here for sake of brevity/storytelling, i.e. most of Daud's men are already dead, he fights alone, he doesn't make the audiograph recording, and pistols can carry multiple bullets. Enjoy!

Daud sat in his chair and waited to die.

He could not stop it. Nobody could. Well, maybe the Outsider-but the black-eyed bastard had forsaken him, turned his attentions to the man currently cutting a swathe through his headquarters. Not that there had been any screams, or gunfire, or the clashes of swords. Nothing to indicate a fair fight, or an attempt at one. No, this was a systematic slaughter of his men. His whalers, skilled and deadly in their art, were dying. Humiliated, and hopeless, and alone.

And he continued to sit.

He felt light-headed, head drooping towards his chest. The room was unbearably humid, and stank of rotting meat. Weak rays of sunlight shone fitfully through the windows, but barely enough to see by. His sword, his faithful sword, was clenched in his right hand, but it did not give him strength. It felt tiny, and useless.

How much longer is the bastard going to keep me waiting? It was one of the paradoxes of life. He'd feared this day ever since he'd killed the empress. Even after killing Delilah, and saving Emily Kaldwin from un-life as the witch's puppet, he'd woken from nightmares filled with blood and a skull-like face, glaring hungrily at him. And somewhere, even in his waking moments, the Outsider's whispers…

And now that day had come and was dragging itself out as slowly and painfully as possible. Pain. He was no stranger to that. Dunwall had built itself on the pain of others. First the settlers who had come here, then the peasants, then the lower classes, then anyone who wasn't rich enough to be spared the ravenings of the plague, or the amoral shits who threw their money around and pretended like they weren't responsible. Why should he, the Knife of Dunwall, be any different?

Why should an empress be different?

Fuck. It always came back to that. Always, always her. Her damned portrait was still at his desk. Why didn't he just burn the damn thing? Carve it up beyond recognition, throw it into the waters? But Daud knew that even if he had a sword to his throat, he could not do it. If the sky had cracked open and the Void rushed in to claim them all, he would not do it.

He was starting to wish he could just scream, tear at himself and be rid of the guilt forever. Maybe all he needed to do was ram a blade into his chest just so, and something would go pop and he'd feel like a new man…

And if nothing else, he'd cheat Corvo of his rightful revenge. The thought pleased him, in a sour kind of way. The last gasp of a failing life.

His thoughts never used to be this morbid. There was a time when he thought it was the Outsider, seeking at first to test him, then simply harangue him. Now he couldn't believe he'd ever been that naïve. He was marked for death, had been ever since that fateful day in the schoolyard. A tall man, long cloak, eyes the colour of wheat…

He'd been good with his hands. That was something the other children hadn't possessed, and they'd been both jealous and fascinated of him. They preferred to beat each other with sticks, break apart rocks, roll boulders over and stamp on the insects that struggled feebly beneath, hooting with glee all the while. He'd grown bored. Instead, he turned his attentions to whatever washed up on the nearby shore.

From there, he'd made things. Little clay dolls. Glass bottles, filled with periwinkle shells. Necklaces made from twine, decorated with glimmering stones. Seagulls squawking overhead, wispy sand underfoot. It had been a good time, a peaceful time. The last time he'd known of such things.

For all his deftness and creativity, he had not lived well. His mother was unrivalled in her knowledge of herbs, charms and medicines, but rumour passed everywhere that she was a witch, and that she consorted with the malva, the evil spirits who brought ruin to all but a chosen few. Business was always bad, and they went hungry most nights.

So when the man in the schoolyard offered him a meal, and food to take home, Daud didn't hesitate. He let the man take him by the hand, lead him away.

He woke up later, chained to a dank wall, the taste of some potent drug foul on his tongue. He was scared, because it was dark, and because his mother would not know where he had gone.

Then a door opened, and they came for him.

Stumbling through dark corridors, a knife pressing into his back, a wheezing breath on his neck. They had gone down, deeper and deeper into the earth, until he heard the faint sound of sobbing. And the crackling of torches.

Through another door, and-

"Estraneo….Estraneo….Estraneo…"

He met the dead eyes of other children, and felt his mouth slip open with horror. They looked like they had not seen daylight in months…years. They wore rags. They were skin and bone. They huddled together, and shied away from the light-

The light of braziers, surrounding a stone altar. It was covered in dried blood, slicked and painted into symbols that made no sense to his eyes. The fires cast eerie shadows on the walls, and amidst the mould and damp, he could see more drawings, of strange creatures and monsters that defied imagination. They had also been made with blood.

But now there was movement, the snarled commands to stay silent and still, two brutish men shepherding the children together. Gazing hungrily at them, the men licked their lips. Sweat ran down their foreheads.

But Daud was looking past them, at the altar. There was movement.

From where he had knelt, the tall man rose and turned to face them. His face was expressionless. His chanting had ceased. From beneath his tattered robe, a hand lifted, to point to a child next to Daud.

Daud turned to look, but was violently shoved out of the way as one of the men seized the chosen one and frog-marched him up to the altar. His shoulder cracked against the skeletal arms of one of the other children, and he almost apologised. But the child stared right through him, as if he were a ghost.

The tall man went behind the altar, and withdrew a tarnished silver box. From within the box, he drew a sickle. The point shone dully in the dim light, and Daud's stomach twisted in horror. He had seen carcasses of pigs and oxen, towed out to the estuary and tossed into the outgoing tide. He'd seen butcher's markets where the ground ran red. But this…

He tried to run, but the other man collared him, squeezed his neck until his vision swam with darkness at the edges. "You watch, you little bastard," the man rasped. "You watch it all."

And he did. He watched as the tall man bound the child's hands and feet to the altar, watched him sharpen the sickle on a purple whetstone. He watched as he beseeched someone called "the outsider", and dedicated this paltry sacrifice to him. And when the sickle came down and ripped into the child's stomach, he heard, not a scream of agony, but a long sigh. Of relief.

Daud watched. He watched until the scene was burned into his mind forever. And from that moment, he felt something cold grip his soul.

Time passed, in that subterranean nightmare. He saw nothing but darkness and mould-slicked walls. And after enough time had passed, he would be brought out, to see another young, wasted body be gutted on that altar. Their haunted cries would climb up the walls of that chamber, and the men would pray, pray for the attentions of their deity. The one they called outsider.

Their god never came. That did not stop them.

In the darkness, he would hear the sobs of the children. Or the deafening silence, which was somehow worse. But Daud did not give in to despair. He nursed the cold fire in his heart, let it sustain him when the men beat him and starved him. He would kill them. He would kill them all.

"I will," he said out loud, to the pitch-black cell. "I will kill them all."

There was a faint, scraping noise, and the handle turned. The door swung inward. Daud composed his face to stone, ready for another beating from the men.

But what stepped through the door was not a man at all.

He could see that right away. His mother had warned him of spirits, of the tempters and deceivers that walked among men and women in the trappings of mortal flesh. They had a hundred and one names, and a thousand black spells to make misery with, but they all had one thing in common. Their eyes.

And the eyes of this demon were blacker than the darkness he had come to know so well. Yet, as Daud watched the man-thing step almost languidly into his cell, he felt no fear. He felt nothing at all.

"You are not like the others, are you, Daud?"

It knew his name. He was in its power, now. He stiffened as it came closer. Something like amusement crossed its features, which were shrouded in shadow. But how could that be? There was no light, and yet it seemed as though curls and tangles of night roiled around the demon like a Serkonos storm.

"The other children quake in the darkness and dream of better times. Swift ends to their miserable lives." It cocked its head. "But here you are, rotting away, and you dream of revenge. Of spilling the blood of those…pretenders." It practically spat out the last word, and a chill ran down Daud's spine. But he stayed silent.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? To be free of those shackles. To take justice into your own hands?"

He nodded. Never make a deal with devils, boy, his mother whispered in the back of his mind. But she was not here. He was.

"Then let's see what we can do about that." The man-thing gestured.

A white-hot pain erupted on the back of his left hand, and he fought back a scream. The first light he had seen since the last sacrifice seared his eyes, and he tore his gaze away. The sound of sizzling flesh, the popping and bubbling of melted skin. It was agony-

-and then it was over. His hand felt fine. Cautiously, he inspected it, fearing whatever hideous deformity the demon had placed there…

A series of curved symbols were now etched on the back of his hand, glimmering in the darkness. His stomach dropped. He had seen those symbols once before, in a dusty old book that his mother had snatched from his hands and trodden into the dirt. It was-

"My mark," the demon murmured, his voice low with satisfaction. "What you do with it is your choice. You can leave this place, and return to your mother. Or you can bring this place down on the heads of those men. You can bring them all they deserve and more."

This surprised him. Demons were ever cunning, so went the word. It was giving him this…gift with no bargain or conditions? Was it a trick? He gazed at the man-thing, and tried to glean the truth from its features. But those black, black eyes gave nothing away. Lips curved upward in a faint smile, a smile of…approval.

"Goodbye, Daud."

And it was gone. Disappeared.

He had broken those chains like they were made from rotten wood. He had walked out of that room. A faint hint of fresh air, coming from a stairwell. He had paused there. Thought about it.

But the cold fire would not allow him to leave, while those men still breathed. So he had kept going, somehow seeing through the darkness like it had never been there at all. Driven by a mounting fury that seemed to well from the mark on his hand. And when he'd found them, engaged in more hideous rites to ply favour with the outsider, he'd screamed his rage and grief. He'd screamed, and raised his left hand.

He watched as horrors swarmed over them and he felt good. It was no wrong, he'd learned, to kill the deserving. They were as monstrous as the things they tried to summon. Killing them was justice. Killing them was mercy.

And now, twenty-eight years later, he remembered what he'd done to those men, and felt regret. Not because he felt guilty for killing them, but because he knew now that he had made the wrong choice that day. He should have left, and stayed in Serkonos. Instead, he had sought to find the shrines. He had come to Dunwall. He had embraced the life of a cold-blooded killer.

And look where that got you.

Well, those men had gotten what they deserved, hadn't they? And years from now, if the empire didn't burn to the ground and there was anyone left to tell the tale, scholars and scribes might speak of him. And how much he deserved to be killed by the madman Corvo Attano. Two men, thoroughly unredeemable. Only one would live this day.

Daud had pondered Corvo's motivations, and concluded that revenge was the only thing driving him now. Redemption and the chance to clear his name were beyond him, even if the loyalist conspiracy had not betrayed him and left him to die. Daud had seen his eyes through the mask. What he'd seen in that unfathomable gaze…was nothing human. Not anymore, at least.

I should have killed the bastard when I had the chance-

He heard the creak of the door, and stiffened, white-knuckle grip on his sword. Was it-

But it was only two of his whalers, swords drawn and blood-splattered. They'd been in the fight, no doubt. One of them, Farrow, yanked the mask from his face and spat a red stream to one side. There was an ugly gash underneath his right eye. "We numbered sixty-one this morning, Daud."

No, I don't want to hear the casualties. Let all that fall away. Let it end. "Report."

An exhausted shrug. "We split up, we fought in groups, we set ambushes and traps…" His voice trailed off. "He is a demon in truth, Daud. Nothing can stop him. Nothing." He threw his mask down, and squared his shoulders. "We're done here."

Daud raised an eyebrow. Strange how there was always something left that could surprise him. "You plan to desert, Farrow? When we could still win?"

A scoff from the second whaler, Aeolus, who shoved his way forward. "Win? You've lost your damned wits, Daud. The Outsider knows we've fought hard, as hard as we could, but it's like Farrow says and there ain't a thing to be done, 'cept runnin' away. Out of this forsaken city, where Corvo won't come after us. Anything but this."

Slowly, Daud got up from his chair. Wood creaked. He let his sword extend out before him.

The two men both paled, and Farrow held up a placating hand. "Look, Daud, we want no more trouble. Just the chance to leave. We've done all you asked of us and more. But that doesn't mean-"

A flash, and the butterfly blade sank into the side of his neck, and blood gushed forth. Farrow toppled to the floor, and there was a snick as the blade was pulled free. A hooded figure stepped neatly forward and nudged the whaler's corpse out of the way.

He is here.

Aeolus gave a shout of horror, and turned to run. But even as he pelted towards the nearest door, Corvo raised his left hand, and a gust of wind lifted him from his feet and slammed him into a wall. Aeolus slid wetly down to the floor, limbs twitching. Eventually they ceased.

Upon seeing this deadly, precise elimination of his whalers, men that he'd honed into the deadliest assassins in the Isles, Daud simply shrugged. It wasn't a shock. Corvo had been the Lord Protector. You didn't get that particular position by being sloppy.

"Hello, Corvo."

The mask snapped around, to face him, and a rattling breath stole out from under it. The muscles underneath the grey-black cloak bunched, and the man took a step forward. The point of his sword was angled downward, but Daud had no doubt that it could snap up in less than a moment. And the terrible storm of Corvo's deadliness would come again. To rain down on him.

Too late to run, or transversal away. No more reinforcements to call upon. Nothing but the blade in his hand, his wristbow and whatever black magic he could still call upon.

It was finality, he realised, this feeling creeping over him. Your story is coming to an end, the Outsider had told him, and already it felt like the last chapter had been written.

Even Corvo understood that, the bloodthirsty bastard. He stood there, and waited for Daud. There was no rush, no desperate need to grind out the last sentences, the last banter one would expect to be exchanged between mortal enemies. This was no fairy tale, no battle of good and evil. This was a battle of murderers. Nothing more need be understood between them.

We have both taken life, and thus we understand its worth. We could not be more close because of it.

"Let's see which one of us the Outsider saves." And he blinked forward, his blade slicing downward-

But Corvo's blade was there to meet it, coming upward like he knew it would. The twin steels locked, and Daud saw the eyes behind the mask blaze into life-

Then Daud was stumbling backwards, courtesy of a shoulder-wrenching twist from Corvo's sword arm, and he shook his head to clear the confusion. When he had done so, he saw Corvo dip his other hand into his cloak, and withdraw his pistol. Saw him stand, take aim.

Coward-

He dived to one side, just as the gun went off, and focused his power. Released it-

-and appeared at Corvo's side, hand grasping the wrist and pulling to one side. The gun pointed at the ceiling, and Daud made to stab Corvo in the gut, but in a flash found himself clinging onto nothing but thin air. The bastard had blinked away. He turned, and scanned the room. Nothing moved.

He heard a creak from upstairs, and then a mental presence, pushing inward on his skull. The room swam for a moment, but his Mark burned and itched in answer, and he smiled thinly. "Nice try, Corvo." He faced upwards, for he could sense where the questing magic had come from. "But the last place you want to be is inside my mind."

A moment later, he pondered the wisdom of that jibe, as Corvo leaped from the railing above and dropped straight towards him. Daud brought his arm up and fired a quarrel from his wristbow, but the bastard just seemed to blur slightly to one side, and the projectile clanged against the roof beams. He's growing stronger-his powers-

Corvo landed lightly on his feet, dropped to one knee and thrust the point of his sword into Daud's side. Daud gasped as he felt the cold metal slice right through his leather coat, but stayed upright. Twisting to the right, he managed to get the blade out of his side, and then stumbled forward. The Lord Protector tried to backpedal, but not before Daud slammed a fist into his mask. Corvo reeled backwards, but blinked before Daud could press the attack.

Damn blade stung like river krust acid. But the Mark had given him an appalling amount of vitality, something that was only strengthened by the innumerable runes he'd found, so he could ignore the pain. But blood loss was a concern, so he pulled out a flask of elixir and swigged it quickly.

He wiped his mouth, tossed the flask to one side-

-and Corvo was upon him like a rabid wolf. Once again their blades met, but Corvo was Serkonos-born, and no weakling. Daud was driven backwards, till he felt himself slam into the bookshelf adjacent to the stairs. He strained, but slowly the butterfly blade crept closer to this throat.

And through it all, Corvo made not a sound.

He managed to find some sort of purchase, and drove a knee up into Corvo's stomach. The man doubled over, but still managed to keep his sword upright. It was enough for Daud to disengage, and leap to the right, just as the butterfly blade came whistling over his head. It sawed deep into the bookshelf, and wrenched out dozens of sheets of paper on the backswing.

For a moment Daud found himself lost in the memory of those rare Serkonan winters, where the sun shone weakly and tongues of white spiralled down from the sky. Playing amongst the drifts, laughing in wonder-

Then he reeled back as the blade skidded across the front of his coat, glancing off the links of chain he'd had sewn into the garment. Saved my life. But Corvo was on him again, mad as a bull, seeking to spear Daud on his blade. Daud countered every blow that came his way, but felt sweat break out on his forehead, and his arm starting to tire. Age was catching up with him.

He made to blink towards the doors, gain a few seconds of relief-

Corvo's hand, still tanned from the heat of Serkonos, seized his own in an iron grip. The magic building there died away, and try as he might, Daud could not free himself. His own sword had locked against Corvo's the moment the man had come close, but Corvo was pushing him back, until Daud felt his back creak against the surface of his desk. Suddenly he was thrust down onto the surface, barely holding off the butterfly knife-

Corvo's monstrous mask filled his vision. One hand still grasped his own, and the other held the sword, pressing relentlessly against Daud's own. Daud resisted, teeth bared in a snarl, but felt his arm being pressed downward. Soon the sword would be level with his neck. Then it would be a quick disengage, a single thrust and it would be over.

It couldn't end this way. Surely not. He'd been told, many a time and often by the Outsider, that there were no good ways to die. That everyone faced the same end, sooner or later, and that whether king or peasant, priest or unbeliever, rich or poor, at the hands of murderers or in bed with your lover, it was all the same. This had been practically the only thing that they had both agreed on, and Daud had lived his life by that philosophy. The world didn't punish wicked people.

But for it to end like this-

A ragged intake of breath caught his attention, and his gaze snapped up, chin nearly pricking the crossed blades. Corvo's had stopped looking down at him. Instead, he was looking just over Daud's right shoulder, at something near the wall.

Nothing to lose. He might be wrong. Daud closed his eyes, and though he believed in nothing and no-one, he prayed to…something. Prayed it would work.

"You remember it, don't you Corvo?" He let a wheezing laugh escape, more exhalation than mirth. "You remember when I ran my blade through that weeping bitch. You…with all your training…couldn't stop me." He let his features morph into a mocking, hard grin. "And you will carry that with you always. You couldn't save her. You couldn't save her. You couldn't-"

As he had been speaking, Daud had been relaxing the fingers of his left hand. Corvo's sword arm snapped back, and he raised the blade for the killing blow-

In all his rage, he had relaxed his grip, ever so slightly. And with that, Daud let his hand slip out, just so, and fired a wristbow bolt straight into Corvo's palm.

For the first time, Corvo let out a bellow of pain, and staggered backwards, his blade wavering. Daud leaped up, and pressed the attack. The ex-Lord Protector rallied, but blood was running down his hand, and he was starting to slow down as well. He managed to deflect half-a-dozen strikes before Daud smashed his blade aside and slashed him across the chest.

Corvo dropped to one knee, clutching a hand to his wound. His breath came out as an angry sob, and he cast his hand about for his sword. But it lay some distance away, and Daud cast a windblast of his own to send it skittering across the boards and behind a bookcase. The Knife of Dunwall bared his teeth, and wiped a hand across a brow streaming with sweat. All the while he kept his blade on Corvo. He would not take any chances with the man. Licking his lips, he took a moment to reload his wristbow.

Then, he waited. Watching his opponent try to struggle to his feet, to push aside the mere concerns of flesh and blood, and to exact the vengeance he'd been dreaming of for so long. But Corvo's Mark was still fresh. Its vitality was strong, but Daud had spent years honing his art. Testing his Mark's mettle. And if he wasn't able to shrug off a wound like that, Corvo had no chance.

Enough. He sighed, and twirled the blade in his hand. "Let it end, Corvo. You'll be with your empress soon enough." He stepped forward, and prepared to swing.

Corvo let out a scream, more animal than man. He leaped up, and, barely paying attention to the blood that splurted from his chest, charged at Daud.

Unexpected. But Daud had picked his next strike. A powerful thrust, to stab completely through Corvo's upper arm. Then, with his reloaded wristbow, he'd drive the point of it up under Corvo's chin, straight to the brain. It would be clinical. It would be easy.

Corvo's charge was clumsy in its rage. Daud's blade blurred, and it skewered through his foe's bicep. Corvo's head arched backward in agony. Daud smirked, and went to finish it-

The mask-clad face rocketed forward and smashed into Daud's forehead.

_

It was the stench that brought him back from unconsciousness, but the agony in his skull woke him up.

Daud's eyes snapped open. Then narrowed in confusion. Why the fuck was the world upside down?

He couldn't move his hands. They were tied behind his back. The knots were too damned tight for him to work out of them, and he gave up with a sigh.

He didn't expect to be breathing for much longer, anyway. Corvo had obviously won, and the only surprising thing about this was that the bastard hadn't just chopped him up into little pieces. He could only imagine what had happened to the rest of his whalers-

A clanking noise came from above, and for the first time since coming to, he took in his surroundings. The putrid smell of whale blubber and oil, rust and blood – they were definitely still in the Flooded District. He felt something tight around his ankles, binding them together – he was being suspended upside down, held aloft by a chain. There was some kind of catwalk across from him, but it looked near to collapsing. A small ladder was next to it, leading up to above where he couldn't see.

Down the ladder came a familiar-looking figure.

"Hello, Corvo."

The former Lord Protector looked like hell, swaying like a drunk and his breathing laboured and coming in gasps. Daud was strangely smug that he had made this man, whom the rumours had made sound more like some kind of implacable demon, look like this. Even if his death was near, he had wounded the son of a bitch. That slash in the chest would probably make breathing difficult for the rest of his life. Something to remember me by.

Corvo's eyes glittered though the holes of his mask. Daud stared back frankly.

Time passed like this, for a few minutes, or maybe a few hours. To Daud's surprise, it was not him who finally broke the silence.

"I could have killed you, Daud. Any number of ways. But this is what we're going to do." He pointed to somewhere above Daud's eyeline. "There's a pistola on your belt. Three bullets. If you undo those bonds, you'll be able to reach it."

Daud rolled his eyes. "And why would I need it now, Corvo? Are you planning to let me finish our fight with a gunshot?"

"No. You and I are done. When I leave this factory, you'll be alive or dead. Either way, I won't be coming looking for you." Corvo turned and made to leave, but then looked over his shoulder. "I'd start now, if I were you."

"Corvo."

The man stopped, one hand on the filthy rung of the ladder. His greatcoat, once a serene mix of grey and blue, was a muddy brown now. His hands were blackened and bruised, and the little hair visible was a ragged mess. His shoulders heaved with exhaustion and pain.

How many of his victims had seen him like this? None, Daud decided. And so his next words came out in a soft rasp, with the barest hint of what might've been pity.

"None of it will bring her back. There's nothing more you can do for her now. She's beyond any of us now."

A muffled noise came from underneath the mask. It may have been a sob, but Corvo's reply came loud and clear. "How little you know."

And, with a grunt of effort, he was climbing. Up, and away.

Well, that was that then. Daud began an earnest attempt at pulling his hands free, but he couldn't honestly say his mind was in it. He was too busy thinking.

There had always been rumours, of course. About the Empress and her grim, stolid Lord Protector. The man had been Serkonan and therefore unpopular with the nobility and court of lords, but damn if he wasn't good at his job. Never gone long from her side, if at all. A near-constant presence, taller than any of the other guardsmen and burlier too. Yet possessed of the same natural grace that seemed to proliferate in the hardest bastards to ever come out of Serkonos.

Had the Empress known that side of him, before she died? Could Emily Kaldwin's father have been right there all along? Had he ever wished he could have dropped the shrouds of duty, and been a father instead? Was there any love left in him, when all of it seemed to be directed at the woman called Jessamine Kaldwin?

Too many questions, pointless their answers. The Empress was dead. Emily would likely suffer the same fate, power-hungry witch or no. And it didn't take much to see that Corvo was what they called strappati in Daud's homeland. A torn man. His heart had been ripped from him and now there was only a gaping void, one that made the real one seem paltry by comparison.

Daud knew this, because he was sure he'd been one for a long time. Even before the Empress. He'd had his whalers, and the occasional good deed, but he'd been under no illusions. Life was equal to dust, when you got right down to it, and he was grimly certain his own was worth even less-

Something far above clanked, and he began to descend slowly. The long chain was running out, but where was it taking him?

Wriggling furiously, he tried to pull his hands out. The rope burned and cut into his skin, but he ignored it. Whatever was happening, was exactly as Corvo had planned it. Whatever was below would not-

"Hhhhhh…..ughhhhhh…"

Weepers.

It grew dark, as he was lowered further down, and the groans of the sick ones below grew louder. Daud began to jerk and buck frantically, as his heart began to pound in his ears. He feared nothing, but the ones taken by plague were without thought or reason. They'd tear him into shreds, and with him tied up, they'd do it with no trouble at all.

His right hand was on fire with pain, but he was starting to work it free of the rope. His left was still bound, but thankfully he could feel the pistola now digging into his right hip. If he could get his hand on it, he would be able to kill some or even all of the weepers, or at the very least free himself from the chain by shooting through it. From there, he'd improvise.

It was practically pitch black now, and the stench was overwhelming. Guts, viscera, both human and whale, it was awful. For a single, crazed moment, Daud wished he still had his whaler mask with him. The one that had made its way onto the wanted posters, when he was just starting to come into the legend. The Knife of Dunwall. Deadly and precise. Utterly unmatchable. A force of nature.

How times had changed.

He saw something in the corner of his eye, and he swung his head to try and get a better look. A dim, blood-red glow. A single, void-black pupil in the middle of it. One weeper, drawing closer.

And, as he looked around, he saw more of them. At least eight. Too many to kill with the pistola, then. He would have to clear a space, then go for the chain, and take his chances in hand-to-hand.

Daud roared with frustration, yanked and pulled until his arm came out of his socket. He felt blood splatter on his wrist, felt it run down his sleeve. But then, his hand came free.

He roared again, this time in triumph. Felt for the pistola on his hip, drew it from the holster. Swung it towards the first hideous, nightmare face that drew out of the darkness with eyes crimson and teeth gnashing-

It clicked, empty.