The Long Bond.

It allows me to enter the void. But nowhere to be found is the mysterious, alabaster world of floating islands and eternity: when I am here, I am terrified.

This time, the Outsider torments me with views of my home: Dunwall. Eel Street. I’m buying an apple from a market stall, only to distract the keeper as I steal my coin back, tiny hand slipping nimbly betwixt the strings of a purse he’d thought closed.

But when I escape, round the corner to bite into the apple, it tastes coppery. Sharp. And when I look down the smooth green skin is marked with red, and in a puddle I see my face- so young. So innocent, my mouth stained red with a stranger’s blood.

The Outsider is angry.

But he will not show himself. I am not worthy. I know that. He’s made sure of that.

I wake, sweating. Cold. Not just because of my perch – the rafters of rundown factory, but also because of the permeating shiver down my spine. Each time I wake, I feel I’m being watched.

Well, I am. By Him.

My skin is slick to the touch with cold sweat, and I sit up as my ragged breathing slows. Sunrise. I’d expected as much. My lamp has died, the oil dwindling to a pool before dissipating entirely, and I’ve thrown off my fur-lined sleeping sack to reveal my bare chest.

From which foul corner of the Isles Daud drew the rite I have no idea.

It’s dark magic. I know that much.

My skin, besides being coated with sweat, is covered thickly with tattoos. My body is a canvas, the final tendrils only just creeping up to my throat. Every inch. Decorated with scenes of battles, of midnight skulking. Of entwined hagfish and great hulking leviathans whose tails wrap around my torso like vines on a bough. They’ll crush me one of these days.

But atop it all, the Mark.

I remember the rite well. I agreed to it. Eager to please Daud. My master. They laid me on the work bench of our present hideout (has he moved? I know not) and stripped me to my smallclothes. From there, the penman went to work, a cluster of needles and a hammer, making tiny punctures in my skin and only pausing to wipe away the blood.

I’m told the entire scene tells quite an impressive story, if only I knew where to start it. Finally, after the marks stretched from my neck down to my navel, around my back and down each arm, I was complete. I was beautiful. The penman was killed afterwards and his body was dumped in the river.

Then I watched, unable to move for my brothers pinning me, as Daud drew his blade and into my flesh carved the Outsider’s mark. It ruined the ink as he cleaved my skin, deep enough to grate the bone. His swordstrokes were slow. Deliberate- intimate, even. I could smell his breath on my neck as he worked.

The scar sits now over the inky scene: A series of crisscrossed pink imperfections on an epic tale. The leather in my mouth kept me from screaming, but Daud didn’t stop until the same mark was carved on the back of my left hand. I’d seen his once before. Mine bears uncanny resemblance, but where his is dark as the Outsider’s eyes, mine is pale white. Ugly. Wrong.

The ink, and the overlying imperfection, and its smaller twin on my hand, allow me to travel as far from Daud as is needed without losing my abilities. The others trailed behind him like a dog on a leash, yet I can venture to the furthest Isle and call upon the Void as easily as lifting a finger.

But the rite was wrong. Unholy. However the Outsider repaid Daud cannot be seen. Perhaps he is ignoring him. Perhaps he’s given him some other mark, elsewhere. We wouldn’t ask.

Before I left, I was treated by the others as both an outcast and a hero. Their muttered wishes of good luck were countered only by their averted eyes. I could not stay in Dunwall. I’m not sure if I could return.

But now I’m done. Dovya was the last of a string of kills. A list I’d promised to Daud would be completed. Now? I’ve no reason to stay.

But I’m an abomination. What will happen? Did he even expect me to come back? The thoughts circle like flies in my mind even as I lace my boots. I stow most of my long-term gear, but keep my vapour mask in the tough leather satchel that swings free at my side.

Radclyffe.

I freeze.

That’s a name I haven’t heard in months. A name I haven’t been able to call mine since I was branded.

Radclyffe.

What is happening to me?

The feeling of being pulled- the same feeling that overtakes me during a transversal- courses through my body and my vision swims.

When it returns, the world I find myself in is not my own.

The factory looks the same. Save for the streaming white light through the holes in the roof.

The Void.

My limbs, to my surprise, obey me, as I make for the gap in the roof. Once outside, I’m greeted by a vista Daud had told us about, but never seen for myself.

Great isles of white marble hang unsupported in the emptiness. Street lamps, loose cobbles and verges are all suspended in the nothingness. It was everything that Daud had told us it was: he spoke of it often, on the long nights in Dunwall. Betwixt the slated rooftops of any district, he would tell us of the Void, eyes unmoving, staring into flame or shadow.

I keep moving.

My path is easy enough: larger chunks of the floating mortal world are arranged in such a way that by careful navigation and the occasional transversal, I’m able to reach the farthest point from the factory. Taking a deep breath, I make a note of the absence of the stench of whale oil and meat: here, the air is clear.

And there He is.

He sits, casually. Perched on the edge of a crumbling brick wall, His eyes study the emptiness below. They flicker upwards and a wry half-smile crosses His lips. I hadn’t been expecting that.

“Hello, Radclyffe.”

I swallow hard as a clenching wind passes through the crumbling brickwork. Looking down, I see I’m naked. The ink upon my skin is stark and black here, and the Outsider drinks it in, no pleasure or disgust on his face. “How brave you are, to have allowed a stranger to etch your flesh with depictions of fairytales.”

I say nothing as He stands, and His eyes meet mine.

“I do not hate you, Radclyffe, as you probably believe that I do. I believe that you hate yourself, however. You see yourself as an outcast. You look at the scar on your chest, and on your hand, and you hate.”

My lips refuse to part and he studies me with an almost childlike curiosity. “And that is why I’m giving you the opportunity to redeem yourself,” he continues, making a vague gesture with one hand.

“A way out.”

As he speaks, the air beside him shimmers, and parts like drapes with a rumble. As the air stretches, the image of Dunwall materialises from nowhere. The Wrenhaven glints majestically and its sudden appearance brings with it the familiar scent of oil and salt. I breathe deep. I’ve missed it.

“Things are changing in Dunwall, Radclyffe. Corruption in the court. The city needs a scalpel with which to carve away the canker. I’m giving you the opportunity to be that scalpel.”

He steps aside and nods towards the anomaly. It seems so real, and I know this isn’t a dream…

I step through.