[ It's the call of waves so deep below the ocean, long and mournful, so many of their own dead and deep calleth unto deep. Their songs were old songs, their great wide eyes and it wracked through him so often than he had long stopped noticing it now. The six months here, the few days of home.

He almost doesn't hear the sharp sound of Jasper's cry out, but he hears the clatter of blade, because he always hears that, fine tuned to it and for that second he's a bow string pulled tight.

Too much attention to miss that slip, and he'd been avoiding this. Since the Outsider he'd been avoiding this but it hadn't gone away, and it wouldn't get better it never did. That was the problem with void, with Dunwall, with him. It crept too far under skin. ]

Whalesong and children's screams. Cradle songs and and bones gnawed by teeth. [ he sucks in a breath like this is some long death stroke. ] You heard it didn't you? You keep hearing it. It's in your dreams too.

[ His words are measured, he doesn't move closer because he knows, right then, he's the worst thing.

But right now, he's the only thing. ]

We need to take you to see Anders.