Lysander strolled along the streets, a tuneful whistle erupting from his mouth. This caused most passers by to give him dirty looks, all of them pissed off. He merely ignored them or shot the looks straight back. He finally got to the Whiskey Distillery, and his Mark glowed as he blinked to a nearby pipe. Kingsford watched the thugs out front, before unsheathing his sword. He dived down on one of them as he drove his blade through their chest, and slit the throat of another. The final one attempted to blast fire at Lysander, but he blinked behind them and held his blade to their throat.

"Listen, pal. You're gonna tell Slackjaw to be out here tomorrow, after the Distillery closes, and he better be alone. Got it?"

The thug squirmed, but it was useless. "Okay, okay! I'll tell the boss, alright? J-just don't kill me!"

Lysander's lips slithered into a smile. "Good."

He blinked away, seemingly vanishing into thin air. He continued his slow stroll around - this time on the rooftops - as he searched for his next target. This one was a slithery one, as they somehow managed to disappear from the radar immediately after a multitude of murders. Lysander seemed to have figured out how - whoever they were, they knew the Outsider. Now, Lysander didn't mind a murder or two (after all, it was his profession), but this one payed well. 150 coins just to kill some guy that murdered members of the higher society. That'd get him an Imperial Pocket Watch. He jumped down onto a lower section of the piping, before he blinked down and sneaked into the Golden Cat.

The great stone expanse of the Westgrace estate oozed regal splendour; spectral tresses of moonlight dancing off its white bricks, and shimmering out across the calm canal waters.

Bright electric beacons, powered by Whale oil which had been shipped in from the slaughter houses, lit the mansion up like some industrialized bonfire, glistening with jarring excellence, sending the nigh-time shadows recoiling backwards into the streets and back alleys.

Lady Nypheria Westgrace, youngest of the Westgrace daughters, lay sprawled across a lush red recliner, one hand poised elegantly on her enormous hip.

Across from her, a wiry figure with a gaunt face and dark-sunken eyes stood behind a large canvas, occasionally dipping his brush in a china Pallet as he worked to capture the details of the great bulging figure before him.

Nypheria's leg quivered slightly, sending ripples through its flabby mass, as she struggled to maintain her authentic pose.

"Stay still." The painter commanded sharply, his eyes still fixed on the canvas.

A chilling breeze fluttered in through an open window, sending the rich purple curtains into light billowing waves.

"I asked you not to reach me here," she chided with an icy frown, her Double-chin bunching up beneath her face "If you want an audience you should use the proper channels."

"Couldn't wait." The painter said simply "and your people didn't appreciate the severity of the situation."

Nypheria sighed "What was so important that you needed to meet with me right away, then? I'd imagine you'll still be expecting me to pick up the cost for this portrait I have no interest in, as well".

"One of our lads," the painter explained, dabbing artfully at the canvas "had a run in with some awful mysterious bloke, says he was askin' all sorts of inappropriate questions about the nature of your operation."

Nypheria scowled "Did he squeal?"

"The individual in question wasn't important enough to know anything damaging, but the fact that someone's tryin' to shine a light where it's got no business being is making Slackjaw...uneasy."

"And he wants me to do what, exactly?" Nypheria asked, rather unenthusiastically.

"This is just a courtesy call is all, Mi'lady." The painter said, feigning offence "The boys thought it was proper to give you a heads up, like."

"And the benevolent lord and master of the bottle-street gang expects nothing in return?" Nypheria sneered "I'm having some trouble believing the validity of that statement."

"Just a hint of caution; we don't want to be risking exposure."

"I've always operated with the utmost discretion." Nypheria said firmly "Slackjaw has nothing to be concerned about. MY end of our arrangement is being maintained with completely integrity and professionalism."

The painted frowned darkly "Careful what you're insinuating there, little lady. Words have a price."

"You'd do well to heed your own advice." She remarked casually.

The painter slowly rose to his feet, wiping his hands on his dull blue overalls.

"All done here, miss." He said simply "who do I see about payment?"

Nypheria rolled her eyes "Talk to Hobson on the way out".

"With your leave, then..." He said, giving a little bow. The painter collected up his belongings, moving about with professional grace, before exiting the room in several long, swift strides; leaving the canvas propped up on its stand.

Nypheria got to her feet, her joints throbbing painfully, and made her way over to inspect her new portrait, the recliner letting out a sharp groan of relief as she did so.

The young woman on the canvas was undeniably immense in girth, with a humongous stomach which was fighting to erupt from the tight constraints of the dark purple dress which hugged her huge form. She had a cold sneer creasing her swollen face, and swirling raven hair tumbled down her shoulders. Her flesh was the colour of chilled milk, and was visible on her great flabby armas and chunky legs.

Nypheria grinned at the painting.
An adequate depiction.

"No! Leave me alone!" A distinctly feminine voice shrieked from a darkened alleyway. "Release me!" The victim was a pretty thing; with long, glossy sable hair; a nearly flawless blushed ivory complexion; a dainty upturned nose; full pouting lips; and the most vivid cerulean eyes...surrounded by deep, dark, thick eyelashes. She wore a simple cotton dress, one that was pulled on like a coat and buttoned down the front, but the top two buttons had appeared to be cut off, leaving the garment to fall open quite revealingly. It was no wonder she was seen as a target. None would assume such a small thing could fend for herself in this city. "Help! Please help!" The young woman cried.

Her attacker was slender in stature, but solid...toned. Dressed head to toe in black, from a cotton mask which only revealed the eyes, to calf high, black leather boots. Perhaps a young adolescent male? The assailant's black, leather gloved hand was wrapped about the woman's throat, and a wicked looking blade was pressed against the apex of her fear labored bosom. "Give me your money." The voice beneath the mask sounded strained, forced.

Seemingly unbeknownst to the young woman's attacker, someone was crouched atop the roof of the dilapidated building opposite the woman and her assailant. Whomever they were, they were statuesque, still to the point that one might overlook them should they not have a trained eye, and a suspicious nature. In the shadow of twilight, however, the figure remained well concealed, cloaked in darkness, and bathed in ebony.

It was in that very moment that another young woman, a passer-by, heard the wailing of the victim, and without hesitation...she ran across the street, toward the alley. The slip of a woman, was loud in her approach and deceptively clumsy, so the assailant made little effort in deflecting the small fist that came toward it's shoulder. With one outstretched arm, the attacker pushed the valiant lady to the stone street, turning their attention back to their captive. "Money!" The assailant demanded once more in a masked voice.

The victim flinched noticeably, turning her face away from her attacker...and began to weep.

Lysander Kingsford ran along the rooftops, dodging incendiary bolts left right and center. The alarms went off and the Lord Regent's voice boomed through the speakers all across Dunwall.

"Attention, all citizens. The notorious mercenary, Lysander Washington Kingsford, is afoot on the rooftops. Please remain calm and make your way to the nearest shelter. The notorious mercenary Lysander Washington Kingsford is afoot, please make your way to the nearest shelter. Thank you."

Kingsford laughed as he dived down onto a tall boy, killing him and entering the suit. He fired at the rest, and jumped out, running rampant along the streets.

"La la la la! Isn't anybody gonna come out?!" He threw back his head and laughed. "Come ooooooooooooooooooooooon! Come say hello to ol' Kingsford!" He skipped over to the entrance of the Whiskey Distillery, now completely empty. "C'mon, guys! I'm not that scary! Why don't you come on out, Slackjaw, and say hello to my fist? Oh, I'm sorry, did I say fist? I meant blade!"

He continued his skip around, yelling at the top of his voice. "Isn't it a lovely day, Dunwall? Come out in the rain, with the rotting weepers and the infectious rodents! It's a beautiful rainy day in Dunwall!" He pranced about, sneering at the scared citizens inside the houses.

Attention, all citizens. The notorious mercenary, Lysander Washington Kingsford, is afoot on the rooftops. Please remain calm and make your way to the nearest shelter. The notorious mercenary Lysander Washington Kingsford is afoot, please make your way to the nearest shelter. Thank you.

The lovely victim's weeping ceased immediately, and she lifted her deep blue eyes up toward the heavens with a huff of agitation, "Damn and blast! Can he not terrorize during the day?" She pushed her attacker away from her a few steps, and began smoothing her dress.

The assailant stepped back from their quarry, and glanced out into the street where they had just pushed the blush haired, young woman, down. Turning away from the dark haired beauty, the presumed attacker reached a black leather clad hand out to the fallen. "Sorry, Corri, I had to make it look real." Murmured a distinctly feminine voice. Reaching a hand upward, the assailant tore the mask from their head, and long, glossy brunette tresses fell forth from it. Blue eyes rolled, and the woman shook her head. "Well, that settles it. It does not look like we are going to earn our meals this night."

"Oh, that is alright Claire." Corri sighed, dusting the filth from her bottom. "Perhaps Esme could work her magic at the speak easy?" She suggested.

The gorgeous, sable haired victim, known as Esme, swept her attention to Corri. "They know me too well there now, Corri. It would not be safe."

The statuesque figure that had been lurking upon the rooftop of the next building, swept a scrutinizing gaze about their terrain, especially the surrounding rooftops. "Too bad we do not have the power to bring Kingsford down. I wonder if they would not pay a handsome price for him, perhaps give us our pardons as well." Yet, another female voice called down from her perch. However, she was not about to endanger the lives of her sisters, so it was best to heed the authority's warning.

All three women lifted their attention to the fourth upon the rooftop, but it was Claire that spoke up. "That would be suicide, El. Besides, they would just as likely take us into custody and design us a rope necklace once we turned him over."

El leaped down from the rooftop, onto the wrought iron of the fire escape steps. She then slipped beneath the railing and swung herself downward still, catching, flinging and propelling herself from anything she could use to Parkour herself to the alley floor. "You are probably right."

All four women looked between themselves before nodding their agreement that they should probably get off of the streets, but where to go at such a late hour? Their hide-away was nearly upon the other side of town where they had about exhausted their resources. "I am all ears to suggestions." El commented.

---

_{"C'mon, guys! I'm not that scary! Why don't you come on out, Slackjaw, and say hello to my fist? Oh, I'm sorry, did I say fist? I meant blade!"}

Wilheim groaned. He slowly rose up from his old wooden chair, bottle clinging in one hand, pistol in the other. He wiped his forehead with the pistol-hand, bit of grease on it. His eyes, a little irritated, glanced over to the open window.

"Isn't it a lovely day, Dunwall? Come out in the rain, with the rotting weepers and the infectious rodents! It's a beautiful rainy day in Dunwall!"

Outside, some unabashed jackass was yelling at the top of his lungs like there was no tomorrow, over the pitter-patter of the rain and the sirens going off in the distance. The neihborhood did not need this right now this, theatrical bilge rat coming here waking up folks who were trying to get a decent forty winks or have a calm round of drinks or...

Oh, he had to do something about this.

Wilheim arose from his creaky chair and stumbled over to the window, leaving the pistol on a table. He peeked his head outside to see the culprit of the commotion - an indecent dreg who hijacked a Tallboy's legs. Ignoring the insane amount of skill, finesse, and luck an action like that would take, Wilheim breathed in and yelled out to the rooftop rider.

"Will you keep it down you enormous BLOODY CUNT."

That old sailor's vocabulary was about to get a workout.

"Will you keep it down you enormous BLOODY CUNT."

Lysander turned on his heels to face the source of the voice.

"Oh, well lookie here! At least somebody came out!" A sly grin swept across Kingsford's face. "What's wrong, old man? Somebody steal your Viagra?"

"There are folks and kids trying to drink and sleep and you're out there swinging your cock around like some gross fucking jackal!" Wilheim replied, "Now knock off your SHIT before I clamp a hagfish around your knobs!"

Suddenly, there was another voice, that originated from the same building.

"Sully, what the fuck is happening up there?"

"I'm fucking handling it Davis!" Wilheim turned his head to yell, "Go back to stroking yourself!"

Lysander burst out laughing.

"You-" He panted for breath, "You actually think you're intimidating? You, think you can tell me, what to do? Oh, you're too funny!"

He threw back his head in laughter again.

Wilheim gritted his teeth, watching the sagacious prick laugh in the most exaggerated manner he'd ever witnessed. He'd had enough. He took one look at his drink and knew what to do. He took a cloth from one of the drawers in the room and stormed over to the table. Soaking the cloth in the remainder of the bottle's contents, he picked up the lantern on the table and returned to the window.

The jammy fuck was still laughing. Wilheim held the open lantern up to the cloth, lighting it. He quickly took the newly crafted molotov and tossed it at the cunt while he was still distracted by the size of his own ego.

Kingsford continued his laugh, not hearing the smash of the bottle, but feeling the heat of the spark of fire on his legs. Shit. He quickly bent time and blinked a few paces away, patting the fire out on his legs. He sent time back to its normal pace, a sly grin still wrapped around his lips.

"So you wanna play like that, huh? I can do just the same." He pulled out his pistol, aiming it at the man. "Don't throw your life away, pal. Say sorry and I might just spare you." He grinned devilishly.

"Oh for- of COURSE you're one of them fucking Garys!" Wilheim replied. It didn't take even a rat's brain to deduce this sorcery.

Just then, a baby's crying sounded throughout the building.

"Sully!" A woman's voice followed the crying.

Wilheim turned his head and yelled, "I'll be right there Amelia!" He turned back to the egregious bastard, ignoring the gun. Not the first time he had one aimed at him. He raised his hands on the window frame and yelled, "Piss off!"

He shut the window, turned, and headed for the door.



The man - Sully, was it? - had just stormed back inside when Kingsford heard a voice behind him.

"Aye, I can get behind that. Besides laddie, you and me have some business to discuss."

Lysander groaned as the fucker's Mark glowed, and he was held in place. The guy started talking, but Lysander wasn't bothered, really. All he heard was blahblahblah, gay relationship with Outsider, blahblahblah, broken bottles, blahblahblah, looking for a fight, blahblahblah, kill Bottle Street Gang and Slackjaw, blahblahblah, guard's cocks. Damn, this guy was gay for sure.

Kingsford was dropped to the ground partway through the homo's speech, and decided to stay there till the end of it, just for showmanship. Then he rolled his eyes as his mark begun to glow. He swept some dirt up from the ground, throwing it towards the bastard's eyes, and blinked himself up, pulling out his own sword.

"You think it was gonna be that easy? Hah!"

The four young women strolled down the streets of Dunwall rather casually, despite Kingsford being on the loose. They had exhausted every option for earning enough coin for a meal this evening, and they had far surpassed disappointment. Hunger and frustration tended to work on the nerves, and at the moment...the young ladies were at one another's throats. "Well, that is just perfect! Maybe we should just turn ourselves into the authorities." Claire growled at her youngest sister.

Corri bowed her head, like a child being chastised. "At least we would never have to worry about where we will sleep, and we would get three meals a day." Corri murmured beneath her breath, her stomach rumbling loudly.

"Enough!" El barked at her sisters. "I am tired of this bickering and whining." El was the oldest, and she had been working the streets the longest.

"Perhaps we should simply find Kingston and join with him." Esme arched a brow, stopping in her walking to stomp her foot and cross her arms over her bosom. "The authorities have been after him for some time and he has managed to remain free."

"Are you out of your mind?" El ceased in her walking, spinning to face her sister. Her hands came to rest at the graceful flare of her hips as she arched a brow at Esme.

"He is a dangerous criminal." Claire chimed in, equally aghast.

"And what are we?" Corri blinked, her eyes widening slightly. The full petal of her bottom lip pushed outward in a charming pout as her gaze swept to all of her older sisters. "We are not saints. We cheat, lie, and steal money from anyone we can." She sighed.

El, Esme, and Claire looked back and forth to one another, tilting their heads, and smiling with sisterly understanding and affection. They all converged on Corri then, wrapping her in their arms.

Edited Note: As El, Esme, Clair and Corri walked through the streets, they were suddenly surrounded by guards. The girls knew that they didn't have hope of defeating their enemy, and thus...they all three withdrew the weapons hidden among their persons at the guards' orders, and laid them down upon the street. Soon, they were taken into custody and carted away.