[The following story is non-canon and a few details have been glossed over or fabricated entirely. Enjoy.]

The Fugue Feast, 1837

So interesting it is, that noble blood should spill red on the snow just like anybody else’s.

My blade wipes clean on the white as I replace it, and I pick up my pace again as the body of the guard slumps down, only to dissipate into fine ash. The mound is gone as the next gust of wind drives itself through the gaps in the roofs. From below, the sounds of merriment are accompanied by the occasional shout from a watchman or the breaking of a glass.

Blood shed on this night is not blood remembered. That which I spill will be washed away when the Month of Rain begins – so what’s a few drops in the ocean that will fill tonight? Come morning the sea will have coagulated, and the remaining nobles will walk skittish over the brittle crust as they sift through the remainders of Caltan for some remnant of society.

Stepping quickly through the shadows, my fur collar stays turned; the whaling suit I wear now would be almost unrecognisable to Daud – years of modification have led to the tough brown leather to be dyed a slushy grey-blue, and seal fur lines the innards; a thick, downy collar peers out from underneath the jacket. The vapour mask is still intact, but the glass is thicker for the storms and my vision less impaired by the larger rims. Sight, as is happens, is important in our line of work.

Another firework is set off as I navigate the slight gap between the rooftops. It lights me up, casting stark shadow on the sloped slate behind me. I hate fireworks. They make everything so much more difficult. Looking up, however, I resolve that light is something I will have considerable difficulty avoiding as I reach my destination.

At the top of the hill, stilted from the wretched undercity, stands Barrister Dovya’s mansion. His is the most gaudy, and the wrought iron gates are open. In Caltan, the merest mention of Fugue is coupled with a story from one of Dovya’s many exploits. The foundations on which the building stands are steeped in every bodily fluid.

I’m not nearly scantily clad enough to be admitted past the front gate; Daud wants this one done quietly anyway, so I ignore the steady trickle of masked guests and make for the closest rooftop.

Transversals are second nature to me now, and as I reach the tallest roof, I reach out into that familiar place in my being and cross the gap onto the balcony. I land without misstepping, flattening myself against the nearest wall as another blinding flash fills the sky.

Tall glass doors loom over me, but aren’t locked. Once inside, the sounds from downstairs are much more apparent: there’s music. Strings mainly. But there’s the sounds of pleasure punctuating the rests too.

Despite the flush carpets, and the trinkets on the table at the end of the hall, this place is more wretched than any brothel I’d seen in Dunwall. I can see past the floral parlour walls to reveal the festering beneath. I pause for a brief moment to dry my boots on the carpet before setting off down the hall. I stay low, slinking almost catlike between the pools of light from the dainty whale-oil lighting. Chandeliers hang at intervals above me. The chains look sturdy enough to support my weight, and I have opportunity to test that as heavy bootsteps sound from around the corner.

I transverse with enough time to spare, and lie flat against the metalwork without it as much as rocking. The guard, clearly intoxicated, is too busy zipping up his flies to notice the brief flicker in the corner of his vision, and passes underneath me. He’s joined by another from an adjoining room.

“Some night.”

“Dovya knows how to throw a feast – he’s promised whiskey and cigars later, once he’s done with Lynn…”

That’s all I need to hear, and I drop to the floor, landing almost silently, making for the stairs. If Dovya has chosen a girl, he’ll be in his chambers. Top floor.

I transverse to the top of the stairs to avoid any creaks, and grip the corner as I lean. Empty. A tall set of oak doors lies at the end of the corridor. Quickly and quietly, I cross the hall; the lock on the door is bulky, but allows me to peek through.

Dovya has not aged well. Daud’s wanted him gone for a while, but he rarely shows himself before the Fugue Feast. The man, in his late fifties, is white of hair and stick thin. He has eyes like a hagfish. Cold and roving. He’s still fully dressed, and in one hand he holds the half-face mask that he’s presumably worn that night.

I can see his bed through the lock. Littered with grapes and empty bottles, a girl lies slumped. She’s naked, and one arm is draped over the side of the bed, clutching a bottle loosely.

This is my window.

The door eases open, and I draw my blade with a rasp.

He turns.

And I’m on him.

Gloved hand at his throat.

Blade coming up.

A flash of silver.

A spatter of red stains my overcoat.

His body crumples. And the whore barely moves on the bed.

My job is done.

Stowing my blade, I move to the window and ease it open, slipping out onto the ledge.

The window closes silently, and I’m already away, melting into the night, lust and drink thick on the air.

___

Thanks for reading! I hope you’ve enjoyed; tell me what you think! Do you want to see more?