AN: After another hiatus of about six months, I'm back. Again. Yay! Again!

Anyway, as stipulated in the author's notes at the end of my previous chap, I have changed the rating of this fic to M. Despite this change, I hope you continue to enjoy the little story laid out before you. If not, I completely understand and thank you for having followed me this far. :)

For those that are continuing to follow my tale, here is the next offering:

UPDATE: This chapter is updated as of March 13, 2019.

Favors

Chapter 7

Predators of Madness & Chaos

The Twenty-fourth Day of the Fourth Month, the Month of Rain, 1837

South Commons District

A quarter past Nine at night

…

…

Otto Hieg made his way through the darkened byways and back-alleys of Dunwall, shadows obscuring many of the city's secrets. An occasional odd noise or furtive movement kept the lanky sixteen-year-old urchin alert. He wasn't comfortable in this part of the city, especially at night, but Master James needed him for the task, assigned it to him specifically, and as always, he was eager to comply.

Though by no means a coward, Otto knew some of the gangs had influence in this area, and while able to hold his own in an even scrap, numbers could easily win the day. He appeared a good target: better fed than most of the urchins in the area. His clean, dark-reddish brown hair and fresh-faced features indicated his lack of plague sickness, and his clothes - a grey jacket, trousers, shirt, and a black bowler - were of a decent quality.

Ever since meeting the young flower girl Rosalie a few months back, with her doe-like eyes and long, brown curls, he tried to keep his appearance very presentable should she ever happen by Bleetmore. However, his current attire could well attract criminal-minded elements of the district and he quietly berated himself for not changing into something less noticeable before heading out on his mission.

"Just be a good lad, now," he muttered to himself as calmly as he could. "Quiet and quick. It won't do a'tall if ya get waylaid while about your duties for Master James."

O-O-O-O-O

An orphan, Otto had been conscripted into the Imperial Navy at the age of eleven and found service as one of three cabin boys aboard the large warship, the INV Guardian. Though the work was hard - learning the riggings, scrubbing the decks, and maintaining the vessel as well as he was able - the ship provided a safety that the orphanages and backalleys of Dunwall never could.

It was during this time that he became acquainted with the Master d'arms of the vessel, James Dartley, who always seemed a fair and even-handed officer. However, it was shortly after Otto's second year of service, during a two-week campaign against a fierce band of pirates, that he learned the bravery of the navy man.

In the midst of a rather vicious exchange in one of the campaign's bloodiest battles, the then thirteen-year-old was knocked overboard into the blood-frothed water of the Ocean. Barely able to swim, the cabin boy clung to whatever flotsam he could find. As the battle waged around and above him, dark shapes swam amongst the dead and dying bodies littering the waters surrounding the ships. A sailor Otto had served with, Clieg by name, floated face-down not ten feet from him. Suddenly in a surge of bloody foam, Clieg disappeared beneath the waves, pulled down by sharks that had followed the crimson wake of the two warring vessels.

The same would surely have been his fate had Master James not dove into the murky waters, two lines of hemp rope tethered about his waist. The officer was quick and secured the boy with one of the lines in a matter of moments, signaling for those above to hoist them both back up. Once upon the deck, Master James made sure the boy was well-situated before attending to others who had been wounded during the fighting.

He came to discover that was how the man operated: James Dartley was always the first to plunge head-on into any disaster and aid those who needed it, heedless of risk to himself. They became fast friends, despite their obvious difference in rank and importance aboard the ship, and Otto secretly swore complete loyalty to the officer.

So it was that when Master James left the service to follow on some personal endeavor a year-and-a-half after that, Otto asked if he could come with him. His own three years of service had passed, and he was free to leave whenever he wished. The officer agreed and took the boy with him.

That was seventeen months ago…

O-O-O-O-O

A falling bottle clinking upon the stonework somewhere in the distance brought Otto quickly back to the task at hand. His grip tightened upon the folded switch-knife that he kept secreted in his palm as he continued on through the middle of the South Commons. The weapon was a treasured gift he had received from Master James two years ago for his fourteenth birthday, and the youth had learned to use it with surprising skill and efficiency.

Finally coming upon Gulldove Road, the urchin glanced down both ways of the street. Seeing nothing, he continued along the lane, hands in his pockets and head held low, trying to draw as little attention as possible. After a couple of blocks, he paused by a particular shop and glanced around yet again.

Satisfied he wasn't spotted, he felt along behind one of the larger metal drainpipes running vertically from the roofs above. He flicked a small hidden switch and a second later a click emanated from within the depths of the abandoned dress shop McWinter's Fine Fashions.

Retrieving a key from his jacket pocket, the boy unlocked the front door, glanced up the street one final time and then quickly entered the shop. Bolting the door behind him, Otto moved past a series of empty display shelves and circled around a large throw rug that concealed a pressure plate. Though he had disarmed the trap from outside, Otto still preferred avoiding the plate if possible.

Making his way to an unclothed mannequin in the street-side window, the boy slipped a small curled piece of paper into the mannequin's left hand. He then raised the dressmaker's dummy's right hand until it was above the figure's head.

Finished, he turned, passing a large mirror and made his way back out the front. Using the key once more, he locked the shop, reset the switch behind the large drainpipe and quickly moved along Gulldove Road back the way he came.

Allowing himself a slight smile for a job well-done, the boy hurried home, certain that his precautions allowed him to go unnoticed.

Despite the boy's precautions, his actions had not gone unnoticed by the predator hidden within the black gloom of the rooftops across the street on Gulldove Road.

Dark amber eyes peered from beneath the shadow of a tricorne hat as the youth went about his business near the abandoned storefronts. A long, black rifle barrel eased silently from the darkness and was braced upon the rooftop's clay tiles. The predator sighted down on him through the weapon's unique telescope attachment. Deft fingers gently turned the rings on the telescope, adjusting the lens and magnifying the target.

-tik- -tik- -tik-

The image of the urchin became clearly defined, even in the dim illumination provided by the distant streetlamps. The fingers slid carefully away from the adjusting rings and down to the guard. The index finger hovered just over the trigger waiting for any sharp movements from the boy who remained completely oblivious to the danger he was in.

The amber eyes followed the urchin's actions as he switched off the trap then looked about the street before unlocking the door. The eyes narrowed as the mannequin inside the window was repositioned. They watched as the boy exited the needle worker's shop, reset the trap, and then they followed the lad's progress along the street until he disappeared from sight.

The predator refocused his attention on the abandoned place of business then slowly withdrew into the confines of the rooftop shadows. He turned the collar of his greatcoat up to his face to repel the night chill, and waited. Moments passed into minutes, minutes into hours.

A light rain began falling across the area and the chilly precipitation dripped off of his heavy coat and hat. He kept his breathing shallow lest the mist of his warm breath give away his position. Occasionally he would tense a muscle then relax it to keep his body from cramping up in the damp weather. Midnight came and went then finally-

-Dong!-

The Clocktower sounded one in the morning.

He quickly disassembled his rifle - within the span of a minute it was apart and put away. He leaned forward then, surveiling the surrounding area with a cold, detached precision. The street was empty. Putting his hand upon the pommel of the sword sheathed at his side, he began making his way across the rain-slicked rooftops, his movements quick and sure despite his heavy garb.

Arriving at a large pipe that spanned the street he crossed it to the other side of Gulldove Road with balanced efficiency. Darting in and out of the shadows offered by air vents, chimneys, and the odd aesthetic design, the man in the tricorne hat finally reached his objective: the rooftop of the abandoned shop.

As he had done so many times in the past, he quietly removed a panel on one of the rooftop vents. He took off his greatcoat and hat, folding them neatly in a pile, and then slid through the opening. He distributed his weight evenly so as to neither warp the vent nor cause undo noise. Ten feet later he was at an opening that led to the upper attic. Dropping down, he slipped through the shadowed interior like a cat and made his way down two flights of stairs to the shop proper. Across the way was the mannequin, arm raised.

Avoiding the trapped throw rug, he passed the mirror and moved up to the dressmaker's dummy. Retrieving the small parchment, he unfurled it half expecting the missive to be in regards to some dim triviality with a fish merchant or chandler needing his aid.

Instead, the message surprised him.

He blinked and angled the paper to catch the dim lighting a little better, to make certain he read correctly.

...

Friend Tyvian,

Unexpected news. The blue flower may have been found. Following up on the lead.

Any aid you could lend would be most appreciated.

-J

…

His eyes widened. The flower found. A lead. Was it too much to hope for? Would the debt be paid? Would his personal madness end?

Such was his shock that he nearly stumbled into the mirror. He spun on his heel and hissed dryly at the figure framed within it: his own reflection.

Of Tyvian ancestry, the tall, dark brown-haired man reproduced within appeared to be in his early thirties, lean and in excellent physical condition. Clean-shaven, his angular features held a definite dark beauty about them, but none of this was noticed by the man. His amber eyes were instead drawn to the two scars on his face. The first was a small cut just above his left eye which was obscured somewhat by a small gold ring that pierced his eyebrow there. The latter, however, was far more noticeable, a white jagged thing that crossed the entirety of his throat and had robbed him of the ability to speak.

He curled his lips in disgust and covered the long scar with his hand, hiding the blemish that was his secret shame. Recovering from the initial shock the missive posed, he wasted no further time, and dashed as quickly as he could back up through the empty building, mindful of the trap and any noise that might be made.

Donning his protective clothing once again, he moved along the rooftops, crossed the street via the large pipe again, and then delved into the depths of the South Commons. Sharp-eyed lookouts would have had difficulties trying to spot him and even the fleetest of the Dunwall Watch would be hard-pressed to keep up with his pace on open ground as he made his way along the various gables, gambrel roofs, and parapets - that is if he had given them the chance.

The Tyvian allowed no such opportunities though, having picked his path carefully as he journeyed back to his hidden abode. He'd traversed the rooftops of the South Commons for nearly a year-and-a-half now and knew them as well as the gangs knew the streets below. Twenty minutes later, he finally arrived at the half-crumbling grey edifice, knowing none had followed him, and he slipped into the broken chimney that led to his room below.

Down a shattered stairway and across a wooden beam, that was much more solid than it appeared, he went and arrived at his room. Checking the door to make sure none had disturbed it while he had been away, the Tyvian entered. The loud ticking of the oddly built clock on his dresser greeted him from the darkness. He struck up a match and lit a small candle on an end table.

The time read fifty minutes past 1 in the morning, the 25th day of Rain, the 4th month.

First he needed to regain his strength. A piece of bread from the dresser, dry but not moldy, served as his repast. Next he gathered a change of fresh, dry clothing. As he did so, a nearly imperceptible sound emanated from a small nightstand near the head of his bed.

-tink-

-You should rest.-

Probably, but he was too stimulated at the prospect laid before him. The flower was found. The symbol discovered.

The sound repeated itself.

-tink-

-'May'. May have been found.-

Yes, the flower may have been found. But it was the first time James Dartley had sent such a missive. It was an opportunity not to be wasted.

He finished changing his clothes and began to inspect his weapons, laying them out upon the bed. The first to be set down was a common Watch pistol, an unremarkable spare firearm in case his others ever failed him, but they never did; still, he maintained the handgun should the need arise.

His disassembled rifle was already prepared for transport. Perhaps his greatest achievement, it was a distinctive tool of his own design. He had spent the better part of a year after his escape building, tweaking, and fine-tuning the singular item. He'd been pleased with the result and hadn't seen the need to upgrade it further in the last seven months, though it did need constant maintenance due to its various unique parts. After gauging the current state of each part to his satisfaction, he made sure to pack extra whale oil and gas cylinders as well as ammunition for his trip.

Finally, there was his blade, Razor Keen. A rare weapon known as a Tyvian shashka, Razor Keen was a unique kind of sabre: a very sharp, single-edged, single-handed, guardless sword. Crafted during an exacting process from the highly durable Tyvian ores and coated with an even more resilient silver metal, the weapon was surprisingly durable and extremely deadly in the hands of a skilled user, literally 'humming' through the air when wielded properly.

He'd received the blade when…

…when…

He couldn't recall.

-tink-

-It was after you saved the niece of Count Djankov, remember?-

Actually, he couldn't remember. Not all of it.

-tink-

-I could show you, should you wish it.-

He looked over at the nightstand, eyes narrowed. The old springs creaked in protest as he sat upon the bed, but he ignored them as he slid open the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Within sat a black handkerchief and what he sought lay bundled within that.

He reached in and gently grabbed the covered item, placing it on the bed next to him. Carefully he unwrapped the bundle until the candlelight reflected off the silver finish of the item. He gazed at it thoughtfully, gauging the risk involved.

-tink-

-You do need to rest.-

He smirked wryly at the offer. Sometimes the damnable object would work on its own, drawing him away; other times, like now it seems, it asked permission. Should he do it?

Holding the object by the cloth, he looked it over as he had so many times before.

It was such a small item, the internal metal mechanism of a music box no more than three-and-a-half inches long. The ratchet lever, the bedplate, and the screws were all silver. Only the small cylinder and the comb with its eighteen tiny teeth were of a high quality brass.

Still gripping the article by the cloth, he flipped it over to look at the engraving on the bottom of the bedplate written in Old Serkonan.

Adoro te Vigilantes Somnia.

"I adore watching you as you dream." It was the name of an older melody from the southernmost island of the Empire, and one that oddly fit the circumstance.

He grasped the sides very carefully, letting the black handkerchief fall away. With one last, quick glance at his clock - four minutes past 2 in the morning, the 25th day of Rain, the 4th month - he held the device in his left hand and turned the crankshaft. He steadied himself then let the ratchet go.

-tink-tinka-tink-tink-tinka-tink-

The tiny teeth caught on the pins of the brass cylinder as it spun in place and rang out the melody.

-tink-tink-tinka-tinka-tink-tinka-tink-tinka-tink-tink-

The tune continued playing and he thought, for just a second, that perhaps nothing would happen this time-

-OOO-

Darkness was all about him.

It had come on so suddenly, that he took a sharp breath in surprise and breathed in the frigid air. Frigid, yet somehow familiar. The smell of frost, of dark pines, of snow.

He blinked and his surroundings came slowly into view, as if he were waking from a dream.

He was deep within a forest. Judging by the light, it was just after dusk. And the air…

He breathed in again.

The air was cold; his breath was visible even in this dim light. He looked about for a moment, trying to get his bearings. The dark shapes of the trees were lightened somewhat by the layer of snow on the branches and the ground.

This memory was from a while back, if the few snippets of remembrance he could recall were accurate. About seven years ago perhaps.

As he surveyed the area, he noticed a large, black form in a tangled heap not ten feet from him.

"Comrade, you have done it!" a shout came from behind him.

He spun on his heel to address this abrupt intruder.

-It's just Dmitri-, the disembodied voice informed him, -from your regiment. He is your friend.-

A young man dressed in a dark grey uniform with black hair and the beginnings of a black beard and mustache approached him through the trees. Several other figures, similarly attired, followed behind him.

"Hahah!" the young man - Dmitri - laughed. "You got it, eh? And with but a single shot? Always the finest rifleman among us."

He looked at the man, not quite certain how to reply.

"And with just your old Zinoviev, too." The young man pointed at his hands.

He looked down only to discover he had been holding a rifle this entire time. It was an older model single-shot, bolt-action rifle. He looked back up at Dmitri and gave a quick nod.

"Always quiet you are, comrade," Dmitri said with a grin, then he turned to one of the other men that had approached the still form on the ground. "Pavlov?"

"One shot," the other man, Pavlov apparently, said. "An inch above the left eye. Damn, it was probably dead before it hit the ground."

"I have the girl!" another voice, younger, shouted out from the distance. "She is safe!"

"Bring her then, Yuri!" Dmitri called out.

"You-you have her?" The men behind Dmitri parted as a taller individual stepped forward. He was thin and dressed in fine clothing, dark blue with a white half-cape, and a ceremonial sword at his hip. His hair was parted neatly and his black mustache was precisely trimmed. "You have my niece?"

The Tyvian narrowed his eyes at this newest arrival. For some reason, the tall, thin man seemed familiar.

"Yes, Count Djankov," Dmitri replied. "My man Yuri has her."

As if on cue, a young soldier came into view. With him was a girl of maybe a dozen or so years with green eyes and long blue-black hair done up in an intricate fashion that matched her rich, cultured attire. She was shivering and appeared frightened.

"My Anna!" Count Djankov said, eyes wide and with a broad smile upon his lips. He knelt down to her. "We have found you!"

"It-it was horrible, uncle," the girl said, still shaking. "The creature… the black creature." She shuddered again. "I could not escape it."

"You are safe now," her uncle assured her, and then stood up with a look towards Dmitri. "All thanks to this brave soldier and his men."

"No," Dmitri said with a shake of his head, and then looked at the silent man holding the rifle. "There is only one here who can claim victory this day. He tracked the girl. He gave the shout. He fired the bullet that struck the monster down."

"From one hundred feet at least," Pavlov added.

"One hundred? Try two hundred, if an inch." Dmitri countered. "And in such dim lighting. On a moving target." He turned back to the count. "This is the man who saved your niece."

The count and his niece both turned to the silent man.

"Thank you, my brave soldier," the girl said with a look of awe. "I owe you my life and I shall never ever forget you."

The Tyvian smiled at her sincere words.

"My man, how do I repay this debt?" The count soundly clasped him upon the shoulder, then his face lit up. "I know!"

The count unbuckled the sword at his hip.

"This blade," he said, holding the weapon up. "It may appear only ornamental, but I assure you, it is not. This shashka was crafted by Master Tokarev himself. Only thirty are known to exist. Compared to what you have given me this night, this sword seems a paltry remittance. Please, accept it nonetheless."

Dmitri and the rest of the soldiers were stunned by the act of generosity.

"Its name in our original tongue is Ostraya Britva," the nobleman continued on. "It means Razor Keen. May it serve you as well in the future as you have served me now."

The Tyvian looked at the count, then nodded once before accepting the blade from him.

"Quite a hero tonight, eh comrade?" Dmitri said with a deep chuckle. "I can't wait to hear what your Bella says when you tell her this tale." The dark-haired man turned to his soldiers. "Pavlov, gather up the horses. We need to get the count and young Anna out of this dreadful cold."

As the soldiers moved back the way they came, the silent man looked at the prized weapon in his hand. So, he was a hero? He fired a shot and slew a monster, and in the process saved a young, noble girl. Bella would be so proud of him when he told her the news.

-Yes, I was proud when you told me-, the disembodied voice admitted. -I was so very proud of you. But that is not the memory we are here for today. It is time. You have to leave, my brave soldier.-

-You have to wake up-…

-OOO-

With a sharp intake of breath he was back. Once more, utter darkness surrounded him, but the smell of pine, the bitter frost, the snow, all of that was gone.

He shifted and the old springs in his bed again groaned their protest. The palm of his left hand hurt from gripping the music box component so tightly. He slowly relaxed his hand and set the metal mechanism down on the bed next to him. He felt around the end table for a spare candle as the previous one seemed to have gone out. Locating one, he lit it and quickly looked at the clock on his dresser.

Ten minutes past 4 in the morning, the 25th day of Rain, the 4th month.

Though the memory-like events in the forest had lasted less than ten minutes, two hours had slipped by here! Time always was skewed whenever the box took him. Sometimes it would be for only seconds, but there were instances when he'd lost more than an entire day. Such occurrences were the reason he'd constructed so elaborate a clock: to help him track how much time had actually passed.

One thing was in his favor though: he did feel rested.

That was the overall plan, wasn't it? he thought angrily at the tiny device. Rather than reply, however, the apparatus now remained stubbornly quiet. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He was mentally arguing with a wind-up machine. If anything proved he was mad, this was surely it.

He had no time to waste on such trifling thoughts, though. After gathering his equipment into saddlebags, including his small timepiece, he wrapped the now silent contraption within the black handkerchief again, placed it in his pocket and snuffed the candle. He exited the apartment and reset a string by the door to indicate whether or not someone had visited while he was away.

Within moments, he was across the wooden beam, up the broken stairway, upon the roof again and making his way north.

Traversing rooftops and raised walkways at a quick pace, he soon found himself at a small stable attached to a pub known as The Winking Vixen. Clambering down to the street below, he approached the large entry door of the stable and rapped upon it. He waited a moment, then rapped on it once more.

"Snuh-uh?" came a half-drowsy sound from within the wooden building.

There was some rustling inside and then a small viewing hatch set within the door opened up. A pair of tired eyes squinted out through the hole then widened in surprise.

"Oh, it's you!" a heavy male voice said in surprise.

The hatch was closed then a moment later the sound of the stable door being unbarred from the inside followed. The door was opened by a heavyset, balding man in his late forties with an unkempt mustache. By the rumpled appearance of his attire he had been dozing at his desk.

"Come in, come in," the man bade. "I'll have her ready for you straight up."

The Tyvian entered and moved to the first stall as the stableman quickly gathered a war saddle, tack, and a blanket. Expertly, the attendant led out a large grey mare with a black mane from the first stall, and began saddling her.

The man, Basil Vanzeer by name, had been aided by James in the past. As part of his recompense, Basil was to offer a quick shelter if any of the Undertakers required it or, in the case of the Tyvian, provide a permanent stall for his horse. Basil was to be ready whenever the tall foreigner should arrive for his steed and ask no questions of his comings and goings.

"Ready then, sir," the large man said after a bit. "As always."

The Tyvian nodded and then handed the man a gold coin, worth ten. Though he wasn't required to tip the man for his services, he knew the value of a good groomsman.

"Thank you, sir," Basil said with a grin.

He nodded again, then mounted his beast. After guiding her carefully out of the stable, he coaxed her into a faster gait, leaving The Winking Vixen behind.

A low, early morning fog was starting to roll up as he made his way quickly through the streets. It would help disguise his passage, as the echoes of the horse's hoofbeats upon the cobblestones would make pinpointing his position difficult.

As he hurried to meet up with the Undertakers, his thoughts drifted.

The blue flower may have been found, the note had said.

He wanted it very much to be true. He wanted his debt paid, he wanted to return home.

The predator from Tyvia wanted nothing more than this whole madness to end.

Sherrill Pathé was well-known in the South Commons. Despite a rough life growing up a courtesan on the street corners of Dunwall, the thirty-year-old still retained her beauty, her green eyes were still unclouded, her wavy red-gold hair still shone brightly, and her figure still attracted the attention of the men.

Tonight, however, luck seemed against her.

Foot traffic was particularly slow in the dark hours, and what few potential customers there had been were driven away by the cold rain that had fallen a few hours earlier. A damp chill settled in after that, and now a low fog cluttered up the streets and alleys. Any single gents who might be about would surely miss her.

As she stood near one of the sidewalls of a store, she pulled her cream-colored shawl closer about her shoulders to help keep the cold bitterness at bay. She'd managed to start a fire in one of the abandoned trash bins and tore another old poster from the bulletin boards to feed the waning flames.

After coaxing them a bit higher, she reached into her small reticule and pulled out a slim tin case from which she withdrew a small hand-wrapped cigarette and a pair of smoking tweezers. Clasping the stub within the tongs, she held it near the flame until the end lit.

She took a couple of quick drags upon it and then noticed a repetitious sound growing steadily louder. Curious, she stepped away from the wall and out toward the street only to be nearly run over as a lone rider, on a large grey mare no less, raced past.

She stumbled back with a mild curse, dropping her cigarette and tweezers in a puddle of water.

"Stupid chuffer!" she groused as she picked up her items. "Och, ruined!"

She shook the water from the tweezers and flicked the now useless cigarette stub into the trash bin. As the butt vanished into the flames, a stray curl of fog, of an odd purplish-blue tint, crept from the gloom and glided up her right arm and shoulder as if caressing her. The fog felt cold, like ice, and she shuddered quickly before leaning close to the open flame.

"I can't wait until the sun comes up," she complained to no one in particular. It had been a miserable night and she just wanted it to be done.

"The morning sun always brings a fresh perspective, doesn't it?" a smooth male voice called from the darkness.

She jumped at the words and spun about, squinting into the murk.

"Who's there?"

A low chuckle, amused and somewhat sinister, echoed from the dark.

"My apologies, my dear lady," the voice said as a shape seemed to coalesce from the shadows themselves. "It is rather rude to sneak up on someone like that."

As Sherrill watched, a tall individual emerged from the fog. Just over six feet, the man was solidly built and square-shouldered. Of handsome countenance, he was in his late-thirties to early forties, clean-shaven, with dark hair that was barely beginning to show a touch of grey at the temples, and steel eyes that hinted at a dark intelligence.

His attire spoke of success: a tailor-fitted suit of black, a white button-down shirt of good craftsmanship, polished well-made shoes, a top hat of newer make, and a long black cloak with an expensive silver material lining the inside.

"Uh, it's alright," Sherrill said quietly as she looked at him. He seemed of a better quality than the usual lads who frequented this area. "Are you lost?"

"Lost?" he chuckled again as he approached. "No. Merely looking for something. Something special." He stared pointedly at her.

"Oh?" she replied, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "And have you found this special something yet?"

"I believe I may have." He reached into his jacket and withdrew a small white stiff piece of paper. "My card."

She took the proffered item with an eager grin. This one was of much higher standards than she was used to. Reading the words by the dim light of the fire, her eyes widened in surprise.

"You're a professor? And an artist?" She was impressed.

"Yes. Those are my professions. And that is my birth name."

She blinked and looked back up at him.

"Birth name?" She seemed confused. "You go by something else?"

"Indeed," he said, as he moved closer to her. "The local gazettes like to publish my work, my art, under the auspices of… the Beast of Whitecliff."

She blinked for a moment, not certain that she had heard correctly, then suddenly fear began to take root. She took a step back only to bump into the stone wall behind her.

"Oh no, oh no," she began and made to scream.

The dark figure moved quickly though, clamping his right hand over her mouth to silence her. His other arm encircled her waist and pulled her close. She tried to push away from him, to squirm free, but his strength was unbelievable.

"I have need of you, pretty one," he growled and then a change began to overcome him.

His handsome features began to twist and warp. The color drained from his flesh, leaving him pale, like death itself. His arms seemed to stretch and the nails of his fingers extended into talon-like things. The steel color of his eyes drained away only to be replaced by a blood red hue and his teeth cracked and grew jagged, like shards of bone lining his mouth.

Sherrill twisted and tried kicking her assailant, struggling to get away. Her horror grew with each passing second as the man holding her became a bent misshapen thing from the darkest of nightmares. Finally, the changes stopped and a terrible smile split the once handsome face as he gazed hungrily upon her. She began shaking her head 'no' as a sinister chortle escaped him.

"Oh, do not worry, pretty one," his voice was still a smooth tone that belied his new appearance. "Rejoice instead. Your sacrifice goes on to aid me, and thus the dark-eyed Master himself! You are making sure the Outsider's will is done here in this fair city."

She tried screaming again, but the muffled sounds went unheard. He leaned in closer to her, his mouth opening wide, more like a serpent than a man. She struggled one final time before the jagged teeth pierced her neck and shoulder. Pain overwhelmed her as the teeth tore into her soft flesh. A low crunching noise followed and her fingers dug into the man's clothing.

She still tried to escape, to twist away despite the futility. He moaned into her skin, drinking deep of her blood, of her very essence. She spasmed and shook as his brutal assault continued, the tortuous pain unending as he consumed her life.

Slowly, she began to fade; her grip loosened on his clothes and she slumped backwards against the wall. Finally her arms fell to her sides as her head began to tilt to the side. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she was dimly aware that he let go of her waist and held her against the wall with only the hand covering her mouth.

He pulled back, blood smeared across his lips as he looked down upon her.

"And now to complete the sacrifice in His name!"

The twisted creature held his free hand aloft and made a gesture. An odd symbol or tattoo on the back of his hand seemed to glow momentarily then shadows began to form about it. A dark blur engulfed his fingers then solidified, looking similar to a sword's pommel. As she watched, the shadows continued upward, becoming a blade for the sword.

"Goodbye, my pretty."

A low groan of protest was the most she could manage as he thrust the shadow-sword down at her. The blade pierced her chest, and new pain shot through her weakening form. Her back arched and she gurgled into his hand as blood began to well up into her throat.

The light began to mercifully dim then, as air and wind swirled about her. She felt herself being transported through the grey vacuum. Her very last thought, right before life left her, was the grim realization she would never see the sun again.

The dark predator the people of Gristol named the Beast of Whitecliff watched in fascination as the life left another one of his victims. His blade of shadow finished her, and as she expired, he held her close, almost lovingly, and then activated his ability to transverse through space.

He and his prey reformed on the rooftop and she slumped heavily against him, the last of her essence now gone. It was a necessary sacrifice after all. Her spirit's energy fueled the dark mana he needed to use his powers, to serve his patron. The Outsider would surely bestow even greater gifts upon his favored servant until one day he would be immortal and everlasting.

He chuckled silently to himself as his body reset, as bones snapped back into shape and his figure regained its original form. He did enjoy serving his master, but even more he enjoyed the power. The power of being a hunter. The power of being a marauder amongst a herd of sheep. None could stop him here, just as they failed to do so in the city of Whitecliff.

He was a predator of men and, looking over the grey city below, he reveled in the Chaos he committed.

AN: And with the introduction of the Tyvian, we finally have the last of the little heroes of our play. I also managed to squeeze in a bit of exposition, and one of the villains of the tale. The last part with the introduction of the Beast of Whitecliff seemed to be pushing the 'T' rating and thus my decision to change it to 'M'.

Also, for those wondering, the South Commons District mentioned in the above chap, like Fhavre Square and the Schauke Dockyards is something I invented for the fic and not considered canon, thus don't appear in the original Dishonored game. I have a map on the Dishonored Wiki under my profile there. My username is the same: MDGeistMD02. The map shows (roughly) where I have located my Districts so you can kinda see where the action takes place if you wish to check it out. :)

Thanks for reading. :)