Only The Rats

Like most of Dunwall's tangled side streets, the malodorous alley known as Bottle Street was ripe with mildew, old fish, and worse. Tonight it was abandoned, slick with rain and chilled by the wind groaning between the run-down buildings. Only one sole figure shuffled her way along the litter-strewn street, and there was no-one to see her but the rats.

Granny Rags muttered to herself as she approached one of the buildings, a key held between her withered fingers. She entered, sliding the deadbolts closed behind her, one, two, three. One couldn't be too careful, even on a dreary, dreary night like this.

She moved through her rooms like a shadow as she made her way upstairs. The air was thick with damp and the wallpaper was peeling, sloughing off the walls like diseased skin, but old Granny Rags never even noticed. On the top floor her secret place lay in wait, a shrine of strange geometry, the only thing in the building not covered in a thick layer of dust. Granny Rags reached into the musty folds of her coat and withdrew a disc of polished whalebone, carved with a familiar rune. A mudlark had fished it out of the Wrenhaven River that very morning, and she'd exchanged it for a few coins and a promise not to throw the little brat into her stew pot - not today, at least.

Now, in the light of the moon, she lay the rune on the shrine and listened to it sing faintly, calling out to its brothers and sisters. And there, in the dark, Granny Rags shut her eyes and waited.

Minutes or hours later, she felt something in the room change. It was still cold and dark, but it was also quiet. The rune's song had stopped. Granny Rags opened her eyes. Her vision wasn't as sharp as it had been, but the black-eyed young man before her stood out against her murky surroundings, clear as day.

"Hello Vera," he said. "It's been a while."

"Yes, poor dearie," said Granny Rags, tutting. "It's been such a long time, and with no one else to talk to. You must be ever so lonely." The Boy's expression didn't change, but he let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. Years ago, Granny Rags had delighted in toying with serious-faced boys. Every time she managed to charm one into breaking that cold facade, she'd considered it a victory. She'd never quite managed with her handsome, black-eyed boy.

"You've been watching the rats," he said. It wasn't a question, merely an observation.

"Oh yes, they're acting strangely, very strangely indeed. Climbing into cribs, nipping at the ankles of urchins. But you know all about that, don't you?" she gave The Boy a sharp-eyed, knowing smile. The Boy didn't deny it, but inclined his head slightly in affirmation.

"Something is changing," he said simply, "and it will shake the city down to its core."

"Oh, I know there's plenty more you're not telling me, my dear," Granny Rags said, in the same way she once teased young men at the fancy parties of her youth. "I know you've been watching them too." She cackled, a harsh, grating sound. This dance was familiar to both of them, they'd followed these steps countless times. "Come," she said, "Shall we take a walk? For old times' sake."

"Of course," said The Boy, bowing neatly and offering his arm. She took it with an indulgent smile.

One might be forgiven for looking twice at the sight of Granny Rags drifting back down Bottle Street, chatting away to herself. If one could hear her they might wonder at her talk of rats and whalebones. Of course, no one did, as there was no one else there. No one but the rats.

A/N: Inspired by this gorgeous piece of fanart:
post/154674128236/vera-moray-and-her-black-eyed-crush