[The lights are too neon, the drinks made to match. Lurid, glowing things, adorned with names that Alucard did not quite understand — in-jokes, references, titles both benign and hilariously crude. The future, centuries beyond his own time, in a foreign world that wasn’t his, certainly didn’t skimp on creativity where alcohol was concerned.
Good to know that humanity’s priorities, and therefore its due attentions, have not changed even across the boundaries of time and space.
Pale skin takes on an unearthly glow when cast under shocking hues of fluorescence, the gold of his now-short hair reflecting it more keenly. Alucard leans up against the bar, nursing something that’s bright purple, something strong and given shape in a cocktail glass with glowing edges. Around him, a rowdy group bursts into laughter at some joke he’s not paying attention to, but that’s fine — noise doesn’t bother him. Attentions are elsewhere and that’s preferable. He casts his eyes around, taking in the atmosphere, and hoping for a quiet night.
But first, harmless experimentation. He lifts the glass to his lips, tilts it to imbibe the liquid within, and… immediately screws up his face, fangs flashing in the light as he grimaces.]
...The sludge that we’ll put in our bodies.
[—he says to no one in particular, currently oblivious to the proximity of stranger nearby.]
[ Emily has certainly come a long way from Dunwall's mine-fed silver cups, naming ships and giving practiced speeches from the comfort of her throne room. It's taken her a while to get used to the flouresce of the city, the way that night is never night and day is only barely day, and she still squints perpetually and founds solace indoors — away from the grime and adverts, the too-tall buildings.
Drinking, for example, is an unchanged pasttime. These are not bottles gifted from standing of Morley, or Tyvia, or even beyond the Isles - no, this is something she has to pay for with her own money. To tell the truth, Emily Kaldwin never learned to deal with money in such small sums, not really; not even in Karnaca, where Megan directed her to the Black Market Shops and the oft-mottled shopkeepers advised her while she clumsily counted out coins with the Duke's face on her palm. Large concepts, macroeconomics, trade between nations, the reserve - things she knows. Casual consumerism, on the other hand? Rather beyond her. She's terrible at building up a nest egg, for one, because she just expects it to be there and hasn't quite yet internalised that it isn't. Every night, after work, she blows most of her money on booze because -
Well, because she can. Because Corvo isn't here to gently pull her back off a path of wastefulness, carelessness, or even light hedonism. Because Wyman isn't here to frown disapprovingly, a delightful pinch across the bridge of their nose.
Today was a bad day, and she's irritable. At least she knows not to have her full purse out in plain view, though, and only slides across a few bits. ]
That one. [ Pointing. Her tone is a bit detached. The way she says her words has an almost masculine lilt, and it's one of many mannerisms that imply Emily was raised solely by a man. ] And two glasses. Leave the bottle.
[ Why two glasses? It is a mystery that will be answered soon.
Anyway, Alucard's muttering does get her attention. Emily glances over, eyebrows rising a fraction. ]
[A lip is still curled up in distaste when the question comes his way, and Alucard’s attention slides in the direction of a young woman seated nearby. As always, observation comes first — he doesn’t know her, doesn’t recognize her. And like all patrons, she must be here to drink the long New Amsterdam night away. Yet there’s a blunt edge to her motions that doesn’t quite align with the rest of crowd here, and Alucard isn’t sure whether to attribute it to an ailing mood or just an inherent character trait of a stranger.
The dhampir is, by contrast, a creature of fluid movement and low tones. Even with one singular motion to her own order — two glasses, leave the bottle — this much is made apparent by the unfurling of loosely curled fingers, the half-arc of a dismissive hand. The way a feline moves when claws have yet to be extended.]
Anything so bright and made to be digested should be considered suspect from the onset.
[So no, not to his taste. But he can say he tried, and eyes instead her choice of vice.]
Hope that your company has a strong stomach, or an unfussy tongue.
[ Somehow, Emily bites back a comment on how she typically expects her company's tongues to behave. (Wyman would appreciate it, but that's where that particular population would begin and end.) She knows that what he means and what the situation actually is are two very different things, after all, and the casual intent of his statement - the implication that she's awaiting a friendly guest - is quite inaccurate. ]
They'll be fine.
[ Or something.
Emily longs to put her feet up, missing the days when she could act like every room she entered belongs to her. ]
I don't think you will want to linger here much longer. My company isn't very forgiving to strangers.
[He speaks what’s on his mind, unaware of what his company is used to — and truly, even if he knew, perhaps he wouldn’t particularly care enough to parse his words even further. For Alucard possesses a small amount of petulance, the stubborn folly of youth, regardless of his once-immortality.
But even he will admit to the notion that he was wrong in his assumption. Instead of the expectation of niceties (and a fair assumption at that, for who saves a bottle and a glass for anyone but a friend?), it seems that despite his ache for a peaceful night, this young woman seeks to upend it.
Unfair, maybe, given that he could just get up and walk away. But he’s found comfort in this seat, and sometimes it’s just the principle of the thing, escorted by a thin tug of curiosity to boot.]
...Then maybe you should keep better company. What am I to expect, exactly?
[ There's a blunt edge to her words. Emily isn't saving the bottle, exactly. She pours a fair amount into her own glass, taking a sip - and then a second, longer sip. It's swill, yes, but that's a step up from sludge. She can afford mid-shelf. (Also, she feels a bit bad about what the staff of this location is about to endure. She's learned a bit of something about collateral damage from her days pursuing that elusive Clean Hands trophy.)
Once her cheeks are fair rosy with the lingering drink, Emily unceremoniously breaks the other glass across the bartop. The biggest shard is tucked into her sleeve, where it disappears. The rest of it is just kind of, uh, left there, glinting in the neon reflected above it. ]
I left a job half-finished, and now my "benefactors" are coming to collect the rest in blood.
[ She gives him a more solid look, inscrutable. Her hair is halfway down her neck now, her fringe having grown back quickly enough, and her brows disappear stately underneath it. ]
Eyes widen when the glass shatters across the hard line of the bar top’s edge, leaving glittering shards that reflect fractals back like grounded, artificial starlight. But such a sight is not so ethereal as to garner the whole of the dhampir's attention, and he looks obliquely at her, the weight of what is soon inbound feeling like a strange pressure forming in the space between them.
Benefactors come to collect the rest of an unfinished obligation, drawn-up in blood. Because of course it would be that.
Sibilant air hisses out from between gleaming teeth, a sort of half-sigh of exasperation.]
I should leave, yes.
[He should. A part of him is already dictating that he get up and walk out the door, leaving whatever bloodied mess is sure to come behind. Her problems were not his own; her tendency to leave a job unfinished, whatever it might be, has no bearing on him.
And yet.
The principle of the thing, and maybe something more. Maybe a twitch in his muscles, a curious want to see how it plays out, to see if that glass shard she’s tucked away, hidden in cloth, might find itself embedded in skin. If she might find herself in over her head, and what to do then?]
[ She'd boasted at the wrong group, made promises she couldn't keep, and now - well, she's found the only empty bar in the entire city. Or so she thought. Alucard's presence is a bit of a hindrance in her plan (such as it is) but she's given him his warning, and he's still here. She can't order him out. She can only suggest. Her style of combat isn't a protective one, despite being taught by the Royal Protector. It's far more sly and opportunistic than that.
She finishes her drink, pours herself another one. Alucard might notice the cloth wrapped, so expert and snug, around her dominant hand. It's not a bandage; she isn't quite that subtle. Beneath it, the Outsider's mark chafes and burns, itching impotently, unhappy that the magics it gifted her are chained down so deep.
Emily quite dislikes it too. Maybe if she'd still had her far reach abilities, she could have finished the damn job. Some Empress, she thinks, as if her capacity for mercenary work and her ability to govern isles she may never see again are in any way linked. ]
Fine. [ It's a bit curt, but that's just how she speaks. ] Finish your sludge. I can't waste my time trying to protect you.
[ On the far side of the room, the door slams open with enough force to rattle the hinges and spread a tremble through the walls.
It's the comfort of habit, and little else, that makes her tug up a thin scarf from the collar of her coat and slip it over her mouth and nose. ]
[He does note it, of course, when he tracks the motions of her lifting that bright drink to her lips. A cloth wrapped around her hand, but it lacks the notation of being a proper injury — he sees no spotting of blood soaked into fabric, it’s not medical gauze, and she doesn’t favor that hand upon first glance. He wonders what's the point; he wonders what there is to hide, but he has no time to wonder much longer.
Fingers have looped against the stem of his own glass, idly, when the door jars open and in come figures, walking in ways that drag trouble at their heels. He pauses, counting their number, and in a move of almost-defiance, Alucard downs his drink in one fell swoop, feeling it crawl down its throat. A sharp inhale and he’s placing the cocktail back down and wiping it from his memory, lips twisted into a grimace.
An elbow still set upon the bar, Alucard twists a little in his seat to look at their new company with more scrutiny than before, while noting in his periphery how quick the other is to cover her face.]
Protect me? From what? Them?
[What a lark. Alucard is just a shell of his former self, abilities sewn up and locked within him, but do give this pale, willowy man a little bit of credit.]
Your time won’t be wasted. Want me to deal with them for you? [That’s less an offer than it is actual sarcasm, as Alucard practically subsists on the stuff.]
[ Her middling, restrained voice grows muffled beneath her mask. It isn't the same one she wore back home, of course. That one is long gone. None of her clothes are the same, her makeup isn't quite as fine, her hair is short and shaggy as opposed to long and expertly pinned up... but she's still Emily Kaldwin. A fight, a good fight, well - that's quite welcome right now.
Her abilities here are quite different from the powers she'd had back home, yes, but she's learned to weaponise them regardless. Sliding off the stool, she lands softly on her feet, turning so her back is to the bartop. The neon lights illuminating the back walls glint off her hair, throwing putrid and sickly-bright shadows, bleaching the softness out of her skin, turning her hard and fragmented, turning her polygonal with harsh, cutting colour.
Her hand touches the counter, just lightly, and the glass shards begin to glow.
Her hand curls into a fist and slams - down, fierce, purposed - and the glass shards start to float in the air.
If Alucard touches them, he'll find them quite hot, like they're freshly blown, not yet cooled. They're not glued by her puppetry. He could pluck one out of the air, or he could pluck them all, if he cared to.
Slowly, her pursuers make their way to the back.
Emily glances back at Alucard, held in her peripheral vision. ]
[He’s almost keen on saying that he can leave her to her own machinations, then, and Alucard can lean back and enjoying not-drinking while he watches all of this unfold before sharp golden eyes. But intrigue is a thread that’s wrapped too tightly around him, and the glass begins to glow — when her fist meets the hard surface and those selfsame shards float in the air, as if submerged in water — that thread might as well be a noose, and if Alucard tries to detach himself from these goings-on, he knows he would be strangled by it.
No, the display of her abilities cinches it. It also tells him one thing about her he had no way of knowing before; she’s like him. She’s been displaced, been taken from home and transplanted in this world with reasons unknown. And camaraderie, based on commonality alone, is enough for for Alucard to take up his sword for something as simple as bar fight.
His figurative sword, at least. The blade didn’t come with him, another shred of flotsam lost in the sea when he arrived here, but he’s nearly sure he doesn’t need it.
The barstool whines in protest as its legs scrape against the floor, and Alucard stands, his back aligned straight as he steps softly next to her.]
Noted. And ignored, for now.
[Acutely aware of the hovering glass, he reaches back towards the closest, plucking a heated one from its space one with forefinger and thumb—]
[ She holds up a single finger. (It isn't her middle, no worries.) ]
Otherwise you risk losing a finger.
[ The moment he takes it, it will lose its glow, cooling quickly to better match the environment around them. It's still broken, though, jagged edged. Potentially dangerous when exposed to fragile skin. The other pieces of glass glint brightly in the air, spin once - almost theatrically so - and then seemingly blink out of existence. Well, then. Emily doesn't look at all surprised, though, so he can probably chalk it up to "part of the plan".
A table is upended in her pursuant group's haste to get to the pair of people, and Emily rolls her eyes before assuming a more defensive position. With her feet better spread and the blades of her hands close to her chin, it's clear she's been trained for combat. ]
I prefer to have as few permanent casualties as possible --
[ That's the last words she says for a little while, though, as five men finally (!) get here.
She punches the closest one in the nose and then immediately pivots behind him to cut off the oxygen to his brain, her arm pinned around his neck in an expert chokehold. A few seconds of that before she's leaving the unconscious body on the floor with some slight care.
[The upended table is all noise, like the growing tantrum of a child, when Alucard’s attentions would prefer to be hinged squarely on the show of her abilities with each passing moment. The delicate and theatrical spin of sharp-edged glass (which he can appreciate, in his own showy way), glinting in neon, before disappearing. He wants to ask about it, wants to know how it works, why the twin shard he keeps in his hand remains solid and solitary from the rest. Notes her quickness of settling into a fighting stance — would like to ask where she learned how to fight, with such readiness that implies both experience and constant practice.
And so these individuals, these ruffians sporting body mods and sneering looks, are all becoming quick inconveniences in his mind, despite his willingness to help. One of them is already down, the oxygen cut off from his brain forcing a blackout, making his body go slack and crumpling to the ground. Alucard steps over him as another large man rushes towards the dhampir, shouting something about minding his own business.
A duck to avoid a fist careening towards his face in he form of a hook. Glass shines in his hand, adjusted lightning quick at just the right angle—]
Where’d you learn to fight like this?
[—to be embedded directly into the assailant’s shoulder as his arm whips up to meet it, sharp enough to break through clothing as if it were paper. A scream resonates in his ear as a result, the other lurching away.
This is fine, right? A good place for conversation.]
[ Well, there's no harm in answering now, is there? To Emily, the fact that it would be a curiosity is a curiosity in and of itself, but her situation is only well-publicised in the Isles. Outside of it... ]
My father.
[ Not that she even has access to the full breadth of skills he passed down. That, like many other things, is locked away under the dulling ink stamped across the back of her hand. Each day, the murmurings of the Void get a little quieter; and with it, her gaze gets less sharp.
She'll explain -- ]
When my mother died, she was defenseless. She couldn't lift a single hand against her assailant.
[ Daud, his Whalers. They had the Outsider's gifts too, and rendered Corvo irrelevant because of it. It's still the worst day of Emily's life - worse than any too-long meeting, scolding, hangover or fussy dignitary.
Dodging an incoming blow, she hooks a leg around her attacker's foot, and pulls him right down. Her knee ends up digging into his back. ]
It was important that I not share the same fate.
[ She would not rest on careless expectations like Jessamine, or so Emily told herself - until she did exactly that and Delilah swept in. Maybe she isn't so different from her mother, after all. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
memoriams) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
finalflight2018-12-25 12:21 am
no subject
Good to know that humanity’s priorities, and therefore its due attentions, have not changed even across the boundaries of time and space.
Pale skin takes on an unearthly glow when cast under shocking hues of fluorescence, the gold of his now-short hair reflecting it more keenly. Alucard leans up against the bar, nursing something that’s bright purple, something strong and given shape in a cocktail glass with glowing edges. Around him, a rowdy group bursts into laughter at some joke he’s not paying attention to, but that’s fine — noise doesn’t bother him. Attentions are elsewhere and that’s preferable. He casts his eyes around, taking in the atmosphere, and hoping for a quiet night.
But first, harmless experimentation. He lifts the glass to his lips, tilts it to imbibe the liquid within, and… immediately screws up his face, fangs flashing in the light as he grimaces.]
...The sludge that we’ll put in our bodies.
[—he says to no one in particular, currently oblivious to the proximity of stranger nearby.]
no subject
Drinking, for example, is an unchanged pasttime. These are not bottles gifted from standing of Morley, or Tyvia, or even beyond the Isles - no, this is something she has to pay for with her own money. To tell the truth, Emily Kaldwin never learned to deal with money in such small sums, not really; not even in Karnaca, where Megan directed her to the Black Market Shops and the oft-mottled shopkeepers advised her while she clumsily counted out coins with the Duke's face on her palm. Large concepts, macroeconomics, trade between nations, the reserve - things she knows. Casual consumerism, on the other hand? Rather beyond her. She's terrible at building up a nest egg, for one, because she just expects it to be there and hasn't quite yet internalised that it isn't. Every night, after work, she blows most of her money on booze because -
Well, because she can. Because Corvo isn't here to gently pull her back off a path of wastefulness, carelessness, or even light hedonism. Because Wyman isn't here to frown disapprovingly, a delightful pinch across the bridge of their nose.
Today was a bad day, and she's irritable. At least she knows not to have her full purse out in plain view, though, and only slides across a few bits. ]
That one. [ Pointing. Her tone is a bit detached. The way she says her words has an almost masculine lilt, and it's one of many mannerisms that imply Emily was raised solely by a man. ] And two glasses. Leave the bottle.
[ Why two glasses? It is a mystery that will be answered soon.
Anyway, Alucard's muttering does get her attention. Emily glances over, eyebrows rising a fraction. ]
Not to your taste?
no subject
The dhampir is, by contrast, a creature of fluid movement and low tones. Even with one singular motion to her own order — two glasses, leave the bottle — this much is made apparent by the unfurling of loosely curled fingers, the half-arc of a dismissive hand. The way a feline moves when claws have yet to be extended.]
Anything so bright and made to be digested should be considered suspect from the onset.
[So no, not to his taste. But he can say he tried, and eyes instead her choice of vice.]
Hope that your company has a strong stomach, or an unfussy tongue.
no subject
They'll be fine.
[ Or something.
Emily longs to put her feet up, missing the days when she could act like every room she entered belongs to her. ]
I don't think you will want to linger here much longer. My company isn't very forgiving to strangers.
no subject
But even he will admit to the notion that he was wrong in his assumption. Instead of the expectation of niceties (and a fair assumption at that, for who saves a bottle and a glass for anyone but a friend?), it seems that despite his ache for a peaceful night, this young woman seeks to upend it.
Unfair, maybe, given that he could just get up and walk away. But he’s found comfort in this seat, and sometimes it’s just the principle of the thing, escorted by a thin tug of curiosity to boot.]
...Then maybe you should keep better company. What am I to expect, exactly?
no subject
[ There's a blunt edge to her words. Emily isn't saving the bottle, exactly. She pours a fair amount into her own glass, taking a sip - and then a second, longer sip. It's swill, yes, but that's a step up from sludge. She can afford mid-shelf. (Also, she feels a bit bad about what the staff of this location is about to endure. She's learned a bit of something about collateral damage from her days pursuing that elusive Clean Hands trophy.)
Once her cheeks are fair rosy with the lingering drink, Emily unceremoniously breaks the other glass across the bartop. The biggest shard is tucked into her sleeve, where it disappears. The rest of it is just kind of, uh, left there, glinting in the neon reflected above it. ]
I left a job half-finished, and now my "benefactors" are coming to collect the rest in blood.
[ She gives him a more solid look, inscrutable. Her hair is halfway down her neck now, her fringe having grown back quickly enough, and her brows disappear stately underneath it. ]
You should leave.
no subject
Eyes widen when the glass shatters across the hard line of the bar top’s edge, leaving glittering shards that reflect fractals back like grounded, artificial starlight. But such a sight is not so ethereal as to garner the whole of the dhampir's attention, and he looks obliquely at her, the weight of what is soon inbound feeling like a strange pressure forming in the space between them.
Benefactors come to collect the rest of an unfinished obligation, drawn-up in blood. Because of course it would be that.
Sibilant air hisses out from between gleaming teeth, a sort of half-sigh of exasperation.]
I should leave, yes.
[He should. A part of him is already dictating that he get up and walk out the door, leaving whatever bloodied mess is sure to come behind. Her problems were not his own; her tendency to leave a job unfinished, whatever it might be, has no bearing on him.
And yet.
The principle of the thing, and maybe something more. Maybe a twitch in his muscles, a curious want to see how it plays out, to see if that glass shard she’s tucked away, hidden in cloth, might find itself embedded in skin. If she might find herself in over her head, and what to do then?]
...But I want to finish my sludge.
no subject
She finishes her drink, pours herself another one. Alucard might notice the cloth wrapped, so expert and snug, around her dominant hand. It's not a bandage; she isn't quite that subtle. Beneath it, the Outsider's mark chafes and burns, itching impotently, unhappy that the magics it gifted her are chained down so deep.
Emily quite dislikes it too. Maybe if she'd still had her far reach abilities, she could have finished the damn job. Some Empress, she thinks, as if her capacity for mercenary work and her ability to govern isles she may never see again are in any way linked. ]
Fine. [ It's a bit curt, but that's just how she speaks. ] Finish your sludge. I can't waste my time trying to protect you.
[ On the far side of the room, the door slams open with enough force to rattle the hinges and spread a tremble through the walls.
It's the comfort of habit, and little else, that makes her tug up a thin scarf from the collar of her coat and slip it over her mouth and nose. ]
no subject
Fingers have looped against the stem of his own glass, idly, when the door jars open and in come figures, walking in ways that drag trouble at their heels. He pauses, counting their number, and in a move of almost-defiance, Alucard downs his drink in one fell swoop, feeling it crawl down its throat. A sharp inhale and he’s placing the cocktail back down and wiping it from his memory, lips twisted into a grimace.
An elbow still set upon the bar, Alucard twists a little in his seat to look at their new company with more scrutiny than before, while noting in his periphery how quick the other is to cover her face.]
Protect me? From what? Them?
[What a lark. Alucard is just a shell of his former self, abilities sewn up and locked within him, but do give this pale, willowy man a little bit of credit.]
Your time won’t be wasted. Want me to deal with them for you? [That’s less an offer than it is actual sarcasm, as Alucard practically subsists on the stuff.]
no subject
[ Her middling, restrained voice grows muffled beneath her mask. It isn't the same one she wore back home, of course. That one is long gone. None of her clothes are the same, her makeup isn't quite as fine, her hair is short and shaggy as opposed to long and expertly pinned up... but she's still Emily Kaldwin. A fight, a good fight, well - that's quite welcome right now.
Her abilities here are quite different from the powers she'd had back home, yes, but she's learned to weaponise them regardless. Sliding off the stool, she lands softly on her feet, turning so her back is to the bartop. The neon lights illuminating the back walls glint off her hair, throwing putrid and sickly-bright shadows, bleaching the softness out of her skin, turning her hard and fragmented, turning her polygonal with harsh, cutting colour.
Her hand touches the counter, just lightly, and the glass shards begin to glow.
Her hand curls into a fist and slams - down, fierce, purposed - and the glass shards start to float in the air.
If Alucard touches them, he'll find them quite hot, like they're freshly blown, not yet cooled. They're not glued by her puppetry. He could pluck one out of the air, or he could pluck them all, if he cared to.
Slowly, her pursuers make their way to the back.
Emily glances back at Alucard, held in her peripheral vision. ]
This is your final warning.
[ If he stays, he's in this. ]
no subject
No, the display of her abilities cinches it. It also tells him one thing about her he had no way of knowing before; she’s like him. She’s been displaced, been taken from home and transplanted in this world with reasons unknown. And camaraderie, based on commonality alone, is enough for for Alucard to take up his sword for something as simple as bar fight.
His figurative sword, at least. The blade didn’t come with him, another shred of flotsam lost in the sea when he arrived here, but he’s nearly sure he doesn’t need it.
The barstool whines in protest as its legs scrape against the floor, and Alucard stands, his back aligned straight as he steps softly next to her.]
Noted. And ignored, for now.
[Acutely aware of the hovering glass, he reaches back towards the closest, plucking a heated one from its space one with forefinger and thumb—]
You don’t mind if I borrow these?
no subject
[ She holds up a single finger. (It isn't her middle, no worries.) ]
Otherwise you risk losing a finger.
[ The moment he takes it, it will lose its glow, cooling quickly to better match the environment around them. It's still broken, though, jagged edged. Potentially dangerous when exposed to fragile skin. The other pieces of glass glint brightly in the air, spin once - almost theatrically so - and then seemingly blink out of existence. Well, then. Emily doesn't look at all surprised, though, so he can probably chalk it up to "part of the plan".
A table is upended in her pursuant group's haste to get to the pair of people, and Emily rolls her eyes before assuming a more defensive position. With her feet better spread and the blades of her hands close to her chin, it's clear she's been trained for combat. ]
I prefer to have as few permanent casualties as possible --
[ That's the last words she says for a little while, though, as five men finally (!) get here.
She punches the closest one in the nose and then immediately pivots behind him to cut off the oxygen to his brain, her arm pinned around his neck in an expert chokehold. A few seconds of that before she's leaving the unconscious body on the floor with some slight care.
It can't remain this easy, certainly. ]
no subject
And so these individuals, these ruffians sporting body mods and sneering looks, are all becoming quick inconveniences in his mind, despite his willingness to help. One of them is already down, the oxygen cut off from his brain forcing a blackout, making his body go slack and crumpling to the ground. Alucard steps over him as another large man rushes towards the dhampir, shouting something about minding his own business.
A duck to avoid a fist careening towards his face in he form of a hook. Glass shines in his hand, adjusted lightning quick at just the right angle—]
Where’d you learn to fight like this?
[—to be embedded directly into the assailant’s shoulder as his arm whips up to meet it, sharp enough to break through clothing as if it were paper. A scream resonates in his ear as a result, the other lurching away.
This is fine, right? A good place for conversation.]
no subject
My father.
[ Not that she even has access to the full breadth of skills he passed down. That, like many other things, is locked away under the dulling ink stamped across the back of her hand. Each day, the murmurings of the Void get a little quieter; and with it, her gaze gets less sharp.
She'll explain -- ]
When my mother died, she was defenseless. She couldn't lift a single hand against her assailant.
[ Daud, his Whalers. They had the Outsider's gifts too, and rendered Corvo irrelevant because of it. It's still the worst day of Emily's life - worse than any too-long meeting, scolding, hangover or fussy dignitary.
Dodging an incoming blow, she hooks a leg around her attacker's foot, and pulls him right down. Her knee ends up digging into his back. ]
It was important that I not share the same fate.
[ She would not rest on careless expectations like Jessamine, or so Emily told herself - until she did exactly that and Delilah swept in. Maybe she isn't so different from her mother, after all. ]