I. Vigilanden Justice If pressed for an explanation of why she's out late at night when there's been a rash of violence in the city, Emily will swear that she simply wanted something to drink and maybe a little gossip. That she's minding her business, heading back from the tavern, and not at all out looking to run across one of the gangs that has been terrorizing civilians under cover of darkness. That her choice of neighbourhood to walk through is entirely and perfectly coincidental.
It isn't, of course, and the jolt that runs up her spine when she hears breaking glass and raised voices - a man barking orders, a woman pleading, the high, thin cry of a young child - is as much excitement as outrage.
"Go find the guard," she directs the nearest passer-by, only vaguely recognizing another Stranger out enjoying the night, and turns on her heel to dart down the nearest alley towards the sounds of violence.
II. Poisoned Gnature The work is disgusting. It's also entirely necessary, and despite the aristocratic manners that seep in when Emily is at ease, she hasn't protested it once, hasn't idled, hasn't taken more than the necessary breaks to get some food and water and not keel over from the stink of the paste. She's seen too much of the horrors of plague spread by vermin to be anything other than serious, even if this wasn't at all what she'd been expecting to find herself doing when she made the bargain that brought her here.
She's checking over a young nanny goat to make certain she hasn't left any bare spots that might leave the creature vulnerable to hungry insects when one of said insects whines past her ear - the hundredth that day, or perhaps the thousandth. Her hand snaps up, crushing the mosquito mid-flight, and she opens her hand to inspect the small, crumpled wings embedded in the stinking gunk coating her palm.
"This feels like a half-measure. We need to do something about their breeding grounds, or this will all come to nothing."
III. Weather [Emily's sipping a cup of coffee, weilding the caffeine like a bludgeon against the midday lethargy that comes of late nights and early mornings, and only half listening to the Far-caster. Half the broadcasts are nonsense, and even those that aren't often wind up giving her a headache, between the unfamiliar terms and the labyrinthine politics that almost make her long for the simplicity of fighting back against a coup staged by a madwoman.
The talk of dangerous weather catches her attention, though, and she regards the device with a faint frown, brow knit.]
Askavi...isn't that where the miniature bloodflies are coming from?
[What void-sent horrors did they put in the water over there?]
Emily Kaldwin | Dishonored 2
If pressed for an explanation of why she's out late at night when there's been a rash of violence in the city, Emily will swear that she simply wanted something to drink and maybe a little gossip. That she's minding her business, heading back from the tavern, and not at all out looking to run across one of the gangs that has been terrorizing civilians under cover of darkness. That her choice of neighbourhood to walk through is entirely and perfectly coincidental.
It isn't, of course, and the jolt that runs up her spine when she hears breaking glass and raised voices - a man barking orders, a woman pleading, the high, thin cry of a young child - is as much excitement as outrage.
"Go find the guard," she directs the nearest passer-by, only vaguely recognizing another Stranger out enjoying the night, and turns on her heel to dart down the nearest alley towards the sounds of violence.
II. Poisoned Gnature
The work is disgusting. It's also entirely necessary, and despite the aristocratic manners that seep in when Emily is at ease, she hasn't protested it once, hasn't idled, hasn't taken more than the necessary breaks to get some food and water and not keel over from the stink of the paste. She's seen too much of the horrors of plague spread by vermin to be anything other than serious, even if this wasn't at all what she'd been expecting to find herself doing when she made the bargain that brought her here.
She's checking over a young nanny goat to make certain she hasn't left any bare spots that might leave the creature vulnerable to hungry insects when one of said insects whines past her ear - the hundredth that day, or perhaps the thousandth. Her hand snaps up, crushing the mosquito mid-flight, and she opens her hand to inspect the small, crumpled wings embedded in the stinking gunk coating her palm.
"This feels like a half-measure. We need to do something about their breeding grounds, or this will all come to nothing."
III. Weather
[Emily's sipping a cup of coffee, weilding the caffeine like a bludgeon against the midday lethargy that comes of late nights and early mornings, and only half listening to the Far-caster. Half the broadcasts are nonsense, and even those that aren't often wind up giving her a headache, between the unfamiliar terms and the labyrinthine politics that almost make her long for the simplicity of fighting back against a coup staged by a madwoman.
The talk of dangerous weather catches her attention, though, and she regards the device with a faint frown, brow knit.]
Askavi...isn't that where the miniature bloodflies are coming from?
[What void-sent horrors did they put in the water over there?]