Backstory
Cassian Vey is the shadowy figure behind the Dishonored, though no one speaks his name openly. He is known to the world as the dealer at one of Mere’s most exclusive underground casinos, where games of fortune and fate are played with as much skill as deception. He wears a tailored silk outfit that speaks of wealth, but his true power is not in his clothes. It is in the way he moves and in the quiet authority that follows him.
Cassian’s status is a carefully guarded secret, and he is the only one with the leader’s tattoo, marking him as more than just a dealer. It is said that he is always ten steps ahead, pulling the strings of those around him with precision. Some think he is nothing but a pawn playing the game. But for those who have crossed him, the price is steep, and they are never seen again.
There are rumors about Cassian’s past, whispers that he was sent to Mere to die, an unwanted child of noble blood, abandoned and left to fade into obscurity. But they are only rumors. Anyone who gets too close to the truth disappears, leaving only the chill of unanswered questions behind.
Cassian plays his game with purpose, never revealing more than he must and always in control of the table. Those who try to understand him often lose more than they bargained for. No one knows his true motives, but one thing is certain. In his world, nothing happens by chance.
Mere’s Influence
When they first took Daveed’s heart, they believed it would give them purpose. They had known pain. They had seen injustice. The heart, so full of sorrow, ancient wisdom, and understanding, felt like the path to something greater. With it, they preached revolution, unity, and change. They gave meaning to vengeance and dignity to death. The Dishonored became a movement, not just a gang.
But sorrow is a heavy weight, and Daveed’s heart had carried too much for too long.
As time passed, the leader’s fire dulled. Emotions flattened. Joy faded into numbness, grief into silence. They no longer burned for justice; they simply calculated its efficiency. Death became a formula. Pain became a variable. Assassination turned from mercy into calculation. The lines they once swore to uphold blurred and then vanished.
They began to accept any contract, any coin. They told themselves it was for the cause. That justice took many forms. That the world had grown too complex for simple rules. But in truth, they just stopped caring. Daveed’s sorrow had hollowed them out.
Now they speak in riddles or not at all. Their orders are silent, delivered through tokens or ciphers. No one sees their face, and no one dares ask. The Dishonored follow, still believing in the ghost of their old mission, unaware that their leader has long since forgotten what it felt like to care.
Daveed’s heart beats within them, but it no longer beats with passion. It ticks like a clock. Cold. Detached. Unstoppable.
The Group’s Influence
As the group made their way to his casino. He was a little surprised they took up his game. A simple game of probability stacked in their favor. At least that’s what it seemed like. Through this he was able to learn and reveal a lot of information he had obtained from The Black Roses.
Curiously, it seemed he had gained more than he revealed as he saw Florien’s expression once he had revealed his secret. Something about that flickered some sort of emotion in him. Something dormant that he wondered what it was. He wasn’t surprised when Sariel had visited him that night however something had stopped him from giving it to Sariel.
Call it a curiousity as he gave the curse of Daveed’s heart to Arispira with a smile on his face.
The weight that once dulled his emotions—his empathy and his sorrow—has passed to another. His thoughts are his own now, clearer and sharper. And in that clarity, the guilt has returned. Every move he made in the name of revolution, every innocent left broken in the wake of strategy, lingers now like ghosts at the edge of his mind. He sees the path the Dishonored have taken, the compromises and the cruelty, and wonders if he led them there with too steady a hand.
He still wears the title, still gives the orders, and still holds the city in the palm of his hand. But there are moments, quiet and unguarded, when he considers walking away, letting someone else carry the weight, letting someone unmarked by blood or memory try to do better.
But he never does.
It is not pride that holds him here. It might be duty. It might be guilt. Or maybe it is just that Cassian does not know how to let go. The game has gone on too long, the pieces too familiar. He tells himself that no one else could do what needs to be done, that he sees the board clearer than anyone. And maybe that is true.
Or maybe it is just another lie he has learned to tell well.
Cassian leads, for now. Whether that makes him the solution or the problem, even he is not sure anymore.