The Stolen Archive

I watched the fires burn all night, smoke blocking out the stars, water hissing as the hull of my old ship blackened around his body. Daud, gone at last. How many tried to kill you, and came no closer than I did all those years ago? How much coin was on your head, old man? Now no one but the Void can collect. For years, I imagined the Outsider offering me his Mark. Instead, he's given me the knife that made him; a weapon that can surely unmake him as well. I can't begin to understand his motives, but I know what Daud wanted. And if he's got to wander the Void forever, maybe I can give him some measure of peace by ending this. As the Dreadful Wale burned to cinders, did the Outsider laugh or just watch, same as me. It's as fine a pyre as I could make. Farewell, Daud. I'll finish what you started.

The Twin-bladed Knife

Daud is dead. I’m all that’s left of him. Me, and this knife I can’t let go.

Dolores Michaels’ bank was a puzzle box of miserable secrets, and right at the center was the reason for it all. A woman taut to breaking and the knife she’d tried to hide.

The Outsider handed the knife to me himself. He wants to know what I’m going to do with it. He’ll find out soon enough.

(Why does this thing have two blades? Nothing ever gets stuck between them. None of this Void shit ever makes any sense.)

Alone again

I burned Daud’s body today.

When I left the Whalers, the rat plague was still piling corpses in the street. There wasn’t anyone alive in those months who didn’t learn grief. Even Daud nearly lost himself to it then. But I can’t lose myself. Not now. Not again.

When Deirdre died, who I was or what I’d done died too. No one else saw me like she did, no one until I met Daud and he gave me purpose again. When I left Dunwall, I let it heal over with lies. But my time back with Daud reopened that wound. All I can hope now is that I helped him in his final days, just like he helped me.

Stolen secrets

At the bank, I learned more about the pharmacist Cienfuegos. He was an Eyeless, and an artist too. He painted the Void, and was close to finding out how the cult leaders reach that place. He stole documents from Dolores Michaels and sent them to the Royal Conservatory. I need to find them, so I can see what he saw.

His paintings are quiet, if a painting can be quiet. Quiet, but unsettled. He wanted to know everything. Uncover every secret. He was searching, just like me. And he was killed for it.

A broken coven

The last time I was in Cyria Gardens, the Royal Conservatory had become a nest for the same coven of witches I’d worked with in Dunwall years ago. The curator, Breanna Ashworth, and a group of women were living there, performing odd rituals with bones and glass. Now the Abbey of the Everyman and their witch-hunters have taken it over and are gutting the place of all traces of black magic. If I’m lucky, the documents I need haven't been burned yet.

(When the Outsider is gone and the Overseers can't use him to prey on people's fears, I'll be there, laughing, as the Abbey falls to pieces.)