String me up by the carrion rails

Shuttle me down in some rusty pails

Cut me thick, and press me hot

Boil me fine in an iron pot

Rich and reeking, bottle me quick-

Fivepenny, Fivepenny, for the good night's light.

Esmond coughed. Not a dry, muffled cough, reserved for awkward pauses in conversation and children seeking to convince their mothers of a feigned sickness. Nor was it the wet phlegmy hacking of those unfortunate enough to come upon the minor plagues and fevers of the isles. It was a drawn, stuttering cough that wheezed up from his chest like a punctured bellows struggling to inflate. It was the sort of cough acquired from years of inhaling fumes and acrid smoke in airless laboratories, spending countless hours breathing over burnt aromatics and exposure to trace amounts of cyanide and asbestos. In short, it was the cough that could only be earned from a lifetime as a dedicated Natural Philosopher.

It was a cough a man could be proud of. And if Esmond was an intelligent man, which he certainly was, he was also a proud man.

Therefore it was a sense of courtesy, not necessity that made him bring up his black moleskin kerchief to his thick pale lips to stifle the cough.

"Another for you, 'Floss?" the bartender, a stark bald meaty thing with a noticeable accent painting him as from the Gristol Vales, placed his oblong-but thankfully clean-hands on the bar and slouched forward. Esmond set his teeth and bristled at the common man's jape. Among the inarticulate and those who thought themselves humorous, adepts of the Academy of Natural Philosophy were given the almost pejorative handle Floss. It was the talk of imbeciles.

But was that really why he was angry? After all, could he even truthfully call himself Philosopher? After months of fruitless research leading to the scorn of his colleagues and his landing, poor and mocked , into the shithole of Coaltower Beach. Like a wart or other oozing growth on the rustic majesty of Dunwall proper, it was a slum, all but utterly inhospitable except for its situation over calm currents on the Wrenhaven which allowed a small trickle of coin from small time merchant skiffs and fishers to sustain the grubby waste. And he was stuck there, without cash or reputation to facilitate it, migration to a better area would still be weighed by poverty.

The gross lout was still staring at him, and he frowned sorrowfully at the remnant crumbs and grease that remained of the small eel pie on the plate in front of him. His stomach complained, unhelpfully in the face of his destitution. He scratched uneasily at his jutted and bony chin. "How much?" he ventured, voice equal parts quiet and sour.

The barman showed his teeth, straight and large but stained yellow. "Ten, as it please the proprietor of this establishment." Esmond gawked, furious. His pigeon-thin chest puffed out insignificantly. This was blatant Lane-Piracy, and the both of them knew it. "Nagh!" He managed to choke out. He hadn't actually paid for the first pie; he'd wandered into the ramshackle tavern, weary and famished and low of funds. When he'd noticed the disrepair of the hovel's pot-bellied heating stove, he was able to bargain it's repair for a meal.

"You won't have a rat's BALLS out of me, you odiferous cancre. Not so long as I have a scrap of Human dignity to my name." He roared. The dim interior of the bar went quiet and the longshoremen and whale gutters looked at him owlishly. His back began to sweat under his coat as the silence dragged on, but he refused to look down.

Finally, voice thick with dry amusement, the barman spoke "Then eat your dignity, Flosser, for all the flavor it'll give ya! Or else go and eat those rat balls that you've been keeping from us!" The whole bar erupted with hooting laughter, such that the thin wood walls shook from the volume of it. Face burning, he quickly swung off the chair and hobbled out of the bar, eyes locked to the floor. As he passed, unwashed idiots and illiterate fools jabbed at him with stubby fingers and raised their mugs of cheap beer in scornful toasts and laughed and jeered.

He reached out with shaking hands to open the door and stumbled out, roars of laughter following him. He slammed the piece of tin sheeting shut and seized his head in his hands, desperately trying to regain his composure, to rationalize that he was somehow superior to the gross scum in that bar.

He looked up to see a short, auburn haired man whose thick arms exceeded the sleeves of his whaler's clothes and were pockmarked with scars. He was leaning against the wall of the bar, lit Corsah pipe set between his lips. The man's gray eyes studied him with a dubious look. Esmond almost hissed at him, like a stray cat.

"I ain't going to ask, Philosopher." He stood straight and rolled his shoulders. "But I think I'll make a friendly observation. You're a long way from Candoran-yes; I know my geography-and your learnings won't buy you out of trouble here." He drew a long breath "and-words are poor eating if you ask me."

Esmond gave the man a quizzical look, wishing he'd finish his foul smoke and be off. He obviously saw the disdain in his eyes, and frowned.

"I'm afraid your friend's bar serves about the best-and safest-food you'll find easily around here. But since you and him don't sound to be on the best of terms, I'll tell you that the Abbey is like to come along tomorrow morning, an Overseer Macaghon and some of his more longsuffering brothers, to hand out bread and soup. Show up early enough and you ought to get fed."

Esmond made a disgusted noise and the whaler laughed. "Oh, you and the Abbey don't get along so well, eh? You haven't been trying to stuff the Outsider into one of your little bottles have you?" It was true, the Academy and the Abbey of the Everyman had always bumped shoulders, and Esmond in particular had little patience for zealots rambling about witches and star spirits. There were quite a few of the Abbey's number, he knew, that would very much like to come across him in a dark alley. To beg alms from the masked fools would be an unacceptable humiliation.

"Thank you for your advice, good day." He rasped. He turned and began walking…Anywhere, anywhere he could go to get away from barmen and whalers and Overseers for a few hours. The man's voice rang out, and he paused, waiting for more jokes.

"Take your good days and shove em' up your ass, Philosopher; I know plenty of men who'd like to do it for you. You wanna keep living? I suggest you drop the sanctimony act. I know some sorry bastards that probably need the chance more, but I think a Natural Philosopher might have some skills that my Foreman has been looking for. I'm talking a job at the whalehouse, you see. You've gotta have the stomach for it, but right now Philosopher, I'm thinking you don't have much of a choice. You want in? Come to the processing dock at four tomorrow and see Boss Hamel, he'll see if you're worth it."

Esmond coughed, and heard the whaler walk away. He didn't look to see where. He stuck his hands in his coat and set an aimless pace along the riverbank. He coughed his wheezing cough, and muttered to himself bitterly. A stray dog seemed to take an interest in him, but fled whimpering when he approached.

Though Gristol was his birthplace, it was not home to him. He belonged to Candoran, the small twin islands sheltered at the near intersection of Gristol, Tyvia, and Morley; wherein stood the noble Academy, true home of every Natural Philosopher.

Now that, even, was gone from his grasp.

Darkness began to loom, and as the sun deepened, so did Esmond's despair. He had but meager coin left, all that remained of his former prestige. His experiments had never been of grand implication, but in the last years, they'd come as utterly fruitless. Unwilling to sponsor his failures, the Academy had cut him off, his colleagues laughing at him behind his back. He dipped into his own funds, called in all the favors he owned, wheedled money from the few in the nobility that had not learned of his disgrace. There had been only more failures, and soon those reserves, along with any amicable feelings he had kept with the Lords and Ladies, were spent. Without any other recourse, he scrounged all of the coin he possessed and made cheap passage to Gristol. There he'd hoped to ingratiate himself with a Lord, with whom he was moderately friendly, to find succor at his estate. To his infinite dismay, he came to the mansion to find old Lord Jonathon Brisby invalid and dying, and his young, and far less sympathetic heir in the parlor. He was turned out like a common beggar.

Knowing himself to be out of his budget, he'd wandered down to the slums of Coaltower, wherein he found himself at a shoddy bar with a bartender from the Gristol Vales.

Numb with a proud man's grief, he half wondered what he would do to get through the night. He recalled the whaler's words and remembered the presence of an almshouse nearby. He didn't like the whaler, or anything about the entire Void-Scourged Island, but he fancied himself an intelligent man, and intelligent men didn't die on the street like filth. He sighed, considering what the short man's job would entail. With a distinct unease, his feet began walking back the way he knew lead to the docks.

As he pondered, he admitted that the Leviathans of the sea had always fascinated him, and that very little study of the great beasts had been committed at large. Even if he were just to pull viscera from carcasses for his daily coins, he could still procure some data. In fact-he thought, brightening a little-he might be able to compile some groundbreaking research on the nature of the whales. Yes, he determined, surely a man of his intellect could rebuild from this tragedy. He would outsmart misfortune, or die trying.

The whalehouse was an ugly creature in the darkness, a flat crouching thing poised by the river mouth, yawning hungrily to devour the whales dragged in by the low, long whaling ships. The stink was far worse, a miasma quite unlike any other rotting flesh. In the house, he could barely see the hulks of the whales, some almost twenty feet long, hanging from their rails, catwalks strafing the bodies for the cutting crews to work upon. Somewhere within were the great cast iron try-pots in which the oil was processed from blubber.

In the yard, there was a small group of men, either homeless or too drunk to navigate to their homes, huddling around a bright fire. He almost paid them no heed, until he glanced at the fire. He paused and stared, disquieted but unable to find anything wrong. The flames were of no odd color, nor overly energetic; why did he still find something wrong?

Then he looked to the base of the flames and saw that the fire had no wood or coals, and seemed to dance over a shiny pool of some liquid. He sniffed, and decided it was definitely no fire as he'd seen before. It almost smelled as if…Curious, he approached the group. The ones that looked at him seemed unimpressed, but he ventured.

"You there, what are you burning on that fire?" he asked. They peered at him back.

"Nothing special, sir; just a splash of whale oil." A bearded man said and gestured to one wall of the processing building, where he noticed a row of large storage tanks. Upon his inspection, he saw cracks in one. On the sand below it, there were strong smelling stains where the oil had apparently soaked into the dirt, a whiff confirmed his suspicions. The oil had been soaked in for several hours at least.

He turned to the people, scratching his head. "Whale…Oil?" Now this was interesting. Rendered whale oil was a fairly common fuel for lamps, especially in the colder reaches of Tyvia where alternatives were scarce but whales were aplenty. In the Empire widely though, plant oil from Serkonan farms and Morlish coal mines dominated the market. Even Esmond's largely suppressed Gristian upbringing had taught him that whale oil was the poor man's fuel.

"Yessir, but we didn't steal nothing. We just came across this cracked tub and filled up a pan; it would have been a shame to let it go to total waste. 'sides, we'd have to be plain stupid to pass up the opportunity for some light an' warmth for the night."

"The night? A fire like that won't last an hour on so little fuel."

"Mm, yeah you'd think that, but it ain't. The oil don't seem to burn so well right out the beast, an' that's usually what you get for lamps and whatnot. But the oil that comes out of this here spot," he gestured at the whalehouse "must be a higher quality. It's clearer than most of the other stuff, like they strain it through something; I dunno, but it seems to make it burn better. Thatcher here uses it, when she's got the coin." A plainly drunk woman smiled placidly at the mention of her name.

There couldn't have been more than a pint or two of oil able to fit in that pan. "How long can you keep a fire going, just on that?" he asked.

The man leaned back on his hands. "This'll last us well inna the night, yeah. Burns real long, on just a little oil-hot too." he smiled and held his spindly hands in front of the flames. "Cook up a rat or bit of whale meat if you've got a stick, no problem."

Esmond sank down into the sand, staring at the flames in fascination. If this vagrant wasn't lying, then the entire nature of the whaling trade, the full scope of the Empire's scientific progress and economy, could be on the verge of a complete paradigm shift. The implications and possibilities-

The sound of heavy lock bolts sliding open caught Esmond and his companions' attention and they swiveled their heads toward the whalehouse.

The door to the building burst open and the muscular whaler from the bar porch stalked out, still dressed in his earlier outfit, a huge cutting spade with a fearsomely sharp head brandished in his large hands. He looked at the fire and the group around it and bellowed furiously.

"You shit faced rats put out that fire and scram before I string you up with the whales and cut out your guts." Without pause, the lot of them scrammed, hastily heaping sand on the flaming oil before leaving Esmond squatting by the remains of the fire.

The whaler stalked towards him, posture threatening. "Didn't you hear me bum, no squatters! Get lost or it's your teeth." He came closer, and seemed to recognize the now fairly shaken Esmond. "Hey now, I know I said to come along here, but you're a couple of hours early, don't ya think?" He leaned on his spade and reached a hand out to help Esmond to his feet.

"Eghegh" Esmond managed to cough.

"What're you doing here, and with a lot like that? Almshouse is just out of the way from here."

"Ah, well, I spent a fair while touring this fair river haven when my path found me at the foot of this establishment, where I stuck up conversation with its…Unappreciated tenants."

"Bah, the whole group is almost as bad as the rats. Worse, probably, if they weren't constantly too drunk to move." He motioned with the spade towards the entrance "Might as well come in while you're here. You'll probably sleep better on the floor here than the plague-ridden cots you'll find at the Almshouse."

Esmond followed the man into what appeared to be an office, with a pair of desks, some cabinets, and doors leading further into the facility. In the dark, the stocky whaler turned "Good a time as any for an introduction, I suppose."

"Esmond Roseburrow, Natural Philosopher. Or perhaps, former Philosopher would be more appropriate." he added, sullenly."

"Ebenezer Greaves, proprietor of Greaves Oil." Ebenezer said, retrieving an oil lamp from a standing rack.

Esmond was surprised when he noticed several heavy glass light bulbs hanging from the office ceiling, swaying slightly.

"You have electricity?" he asked Greaves.

The whaler turned back, lit oil lamp in his hand. "An associate of mine was an engineer from Morley who helped build a dynamo in the back toolshed, coal fired, in payment of a debt."

"Coal is expensive." Esmond noted.

Ebenezer grunted, "Only run it for the winches when a new whale needs to be hoisted up to the cutting floor." He placed the lamp on the desk and moved to a set of cabinets, "You a drinking man, Philosopher?"

Esmond shrugged and Greaves returned, bottle of cheap whiskey and two glasses in hand, which he filled and passed over. Esmond accepted his glass and lowered himself into the second chair, staring into his drink.

"The oil those vagrants were burning, I've never seen whale oil burn that hot, or so long as they claimed. Thinking back, one of them mentioned that the stuff was 'purer' than others. How do you process your oil?"

The man raised an eyebrow at the question, but knocked back his glass and answered "Textbook procedure: catch, cut, and boil," seeing Esmond clearly not satisfied, he seemed to consider things again. "As to whatever the drunk said, the only thing I can imagine him referring to is when I run the oil through the sieve."

"The sieve?" Esmond pressed.

"We run the oil through a layer of sieves-designed it myself-to catch bits of blubber and flesh or dirt before we store it in the tanks." He elaborated.

Like the breaking of a wave, an idea began to form in Esmond's brain. Leaving his own whiskey forgotten, he stood up, looking at Greaves with intensifying fever. "Could the sieves run oil tonight; right now?" he said urgently.

"Yeah, they don't exactly go anywhere else for the night…Why do you ask?"

For the first time in weeks, Esmond felt himself smile. "Because I'm going to run an experiment."

He was back out the door and crossing the yard almost back to the cracked oil tanks when Greaves stomped out behind, muttering consternation. "What are you going on about now, for Holger's sake?" he growled when he caught up.

Esmond was almost shivering with energy "Think Greaves, whale oil is barely used; it's the poor man's fuel because it has a very poor capacity for releasing heat when burned. But what if whale oil's potential as a fuel is tied to its purity? Who knows what kinds of contaminants might be pervading the stuff, retarding the release of its full power. Your oil is filtered, once, and is notably more potent. Say it is ran twice, three times?"

"Say it is."

"Mr. Greaves, I wish to test this hypothesis, using the technique you developed. How much must I pay to obtain a measure of your refined oil, and the use of your sieving device?"

The whaler sighed, tired, and rubbed his nose. "Well I can't very well sell it now. Take what you want of the oil; I'll let you use the sieve for five coins."

Esmond practically threw the coins into Greaves' face before he seized a pair of buckets, filled them from the tanks, and followed Greaves into the inner facility. The stench of dead whale and blubber was stronger here, but the Natural Philosopher hardly noticed as he watched Greaves light several other lamps.

The Sieves were apparently a tower of squared lattices, stacked six feet high, with a ramp allowing access to the top and a spout underneath to fill barrels with the refined oil. Straining a little with his burden, Esmond rushed to the top of the ramp, and with a nod from Greaves, dumped the viscous contents over the rim.

It took the better part of a minute, but eventually a stream of oil began to pour from the spout into a waiting barrel. To Esmond's delight, the stream was even clearer, almost luminescent in the lamplight. Thrilled, he pointed this out to Greaves, who squatted down next to the stream, and wetted his fingers with a few drops, rubbing them together, his face studious. He stood and grunted, whether impressed or surprised, he didn't say.

When the oil had sieved through, Greaves helped him lift the barrel up to the rim, and pour it down once more. When again the oil began to drip down, both men stiffened with visible surprise—The oil was glowing luminescent whitish blue. Esmond stared at the stream and filling bucket with complete astonishment; this was no trick of the light.

"This wasn't what I expected." Greaves whistled and reached out with curious fingers. Esmond reached out and grabbed his wrist.

"That might now be the best idea. Who knows how it might affect the skin?"

He pulled back his hand. "Well Roseburrow, seems you were right."

Esmond shook his head. "Half right. The oil certainly looks different, but I still need to test whether it burns better."

"And how do you plan on testing that?" Greaves asked.

"For that…I will require use of your dynamo." He said slowly, knowing that the whaler wouldn't like this next part.

He didn't.

Greaves' face immediately hardened with obvious reluctance. He stared at Esmond for a long minute. "That's a very expensive machine, Roseburrow. I think you can understand my hesitance to put -that- into said machine, the only source of electricity available to my business."

Esmond thrust forward the cloth bag containing all the coins and handful of semiprecious metals that remained of his worldly wealth. "Collateral. And if damage is done to your property, I will surrender myself to the City Watch or work without wage until you are reimbursed." He could not keep a hint of desperation from his voice.

Greaves took the bag in his palm, weighed it, stared. Caution warred with curiosity, and likely some avarice. After some time in silent conversation, he slowly nodded, waved with his hand for Esmond to follow with a bucket of the effulgent oil in tow.

The Dynamo shed was a squat, dark compartment, set well away from the flammable main oil storehouse. The machine itself was similarly squat and ugly. He'd seen similar devices in the basements of the Academy at Candoran, and the estates of various nobles, and had a functional understanding of their operation. As he watched, Greaves moved over to the far wall and labored at a manual pump, drawing in water to fill the boiler. He moved to the mouth of the boiler, opened the hinged cap of the fuel receptacle.

When Greaves joined him, he pointed to the bucket and asked "How much do you think should go in at once?" the two men discussed it for several minutes, until they decided on a trial test of a quarter of the bucket, which they poured in.

After donning goggles from the flensing hall, Greaves stood at arm's reach from the boiler, unlit match held in sweating hand. "Ready?" he asked to the considerably more distance Esmond, who nodded. He swallowed, then all in one motion struck the match, and dropped it into the oil.

The result could not be described as anything less than a small explosion, and a gout of fire vomited from the boiler, brushing close to the whaler's body.

"Outsider's Eyes!" he swore and deftly slammed the lid shut and locked it tight before backing away, holding an arm, which upon inspection was singed and reddening.

Despite Esmond's questioning, Greaves dismissed his concerns, completely focused on the machine before them. "Wouldn't think oil of all things would burn like that, but by thunder it hits you like a bull leviathan when it goes off. It seems you really were on to something, Philosopher."

"Indeed." Esmond murmured.

With unprecedented swiftness, the dynamo began to grown into motion, churning, and wheels turning within as it roared into full spin. Over the din, he yelled at Greaves to switch on the lights, and as the harsh yellow electric bulbs shone on, Esmond coughed, then smiled wide. "Incredible! You would need double that weight of coal to get the boiler running, and yet that small amount is still running strong!" he shouted.

The whaler himself seemed almost dazed, simply staring at the growling machine. His lips were moving, but not apparently in response to Esmond, instead Greaves seemed to be reciting some Abbey prayer or scripture.

Esmond almost rolled his eyes, but thought better of it. If indeed the spirits were looking upon him favorably, he would not openly insult their providence. Instead, he waited until Greaves appeared finished, then clapped the man on the back. "Best retrieve that bottle, Mr. Greaves, I think a toast or two are in order!" he shouted.

As the other man left to do just that, Esmond stood alone another minute, facing the dynamo, the possibilities of his discovery burning just as hot and bright in his mind as did the oil flames within the boiler.

"This is going to change everything." He whispered.

Alright folks, been quite a while since I've done anything, but I fancied writing a little for Dishonored. Feel most free to give you thoughts, and I hope you enjoy chapter 1.