#{a Blade lost in Ionia}

[deliciousspecimen]

Ember in the Dark pt.1

Young!Silco x Fem!Reader

pt.2

Warnings: War, Violence, Death, illness, Grief, Poverty, Persecution, Oppression, and Child neglect/orphanhood.

Word Count: 2914

Summary: Nayesa, a refugee from Ionia, flees to the Undercity with her infant daughter to escape Noxian forces, suppressing her magic to survive. She toils endlessly to keep her child safe, but when the girl unknowingly uses magic, Nayesa realizes their past will always haunt them. She works herself to death, leaving her daughter alone in the unforgiving streets. Forced to survive, the girl joins a group of orphans- Vander, Silco, and Felicia- learning to steal, fight, and conceal her powers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The putrid scent of burning wood and flesh clung to the air as Nayesa ran, her breath ragged, her muscles screaming for respite. Behind her, the once-pristine forests of Ionia were choked with smoke, their vibrant greens now painted in the sickly fire glow. The rhythmic clang of Noxian steel against Ionian blades still rang in her ears, but she dared not turn back.

Her infant whimpered softly in her arms, her tiny fingers clutching at the fabric of her tattered robes. She adjusted her grip, pressing the baby closer to her chest, shielding her from the cold wind sweeping in from the coast. She couldn't cry- she mustn't cry. If the Noxians heard them, if they saw the faint shimmer of magic that still crackled beneath her fingertips, they would be hunted down.

She had seen it before. A woman who tried to fight back, her magic searing through Noxian armor- only for the warbands to descend upon her like beasts, silencing her screams beneath iron and blood. She had turned away, biting back her own fear, and fled. Magic is a death sentence. That was the one lesson Ionia’s war had taught her.

The boats at the shore were barely visible through the thickening fog. She stumbled onto the dock, her heart hammering as she found an old ferryman willing to take her. He was a man of few words, his face lined with the hardship of someone who had smuggled too many refugees, but his hand was steady as he took her trembling coin. No questions asked. She clutched her daughter tighter as the boat rocked, her gaze fixed on the horizon where The Undercity- dark, industrial, and suffocating- waited.

It was not home. It never would be. But it was safe.

The Undercity embraced the lost, the forsaken, and those with secrets to keep. Here, in the slums where even Piltovan Enforcers feared to tread, they could disappear. She learned to hide in the shadows, to suppress the flicker of magic in her blood, to live as just another nameless refugee in a city built on the bones of the forgotten.

Her baby would grow up not knowing Ionia’s forests, not hearing the songs of the wind dancing through cherry blossoms. But she would live. And for now, that was enough…

Nayesa’s fingers tightened around the threadbare cloak wrapped around her daughter, her mind drifting as the boat rocked gently beneath them. The salt-laden air of the ocean mixed with the acrid scent of smoke still clinging to her skin was a cruel reminder of what she had left behind.

Ionia was gone to her now. The home where she once played among the cherry blossoms, where the rivers whispered songs of old, where the spirits still danced in the wind- lost. She forced herself not to think of the faces she would never see again, the family she had abandoned to the fire and steel of Noxus. Guilt gnawed at the edges of her thoughts, but she buried it deep. She had no choice.

The ferryman, silent as the grave, guided the vessel through the thickening mist. His hands, calloused and cracked from years of toil, moved with mechanical precision as he adjusted the sail. Nayesa knew better than to speak- men like him survived by knowing nothing, saying nothing. Still, when his gaze briefly flickered to the bundle in her arms, there was no malice there, only understanding.

She exhaled, glancing down at her child. Small, fragile, yet warm against her chest. A spark of life amid the ashes of war. She traced a gentle hand over the baby’s cheek, whispering a promise she had no idea how to keep.

By the time they reached the docks, night had swallowed the sky. The towering, rust-streaked structures loomed overhead, their smog-drenched exteriors casting jagged shadows against the dim glow of neon signs. The scent of oil, metal, and damp earth thickened the air, an oppressive contrast to the crisp mountain breezes of Ionia.

She stepped off the boat, her legs weak from exhaustion, and nearly collapsed. The ferryman caught her arm- only for a second before slipping away into the murk, his presence vanishing as quickly as it had come.

Nayesa pulled the hood of her cloak low, blending into the throngs of workers, refugees, and outcasts that moved like restless phantoms through the lower districts. No one spared her a glance. In The Undercity, survival meant minding your own business.

The slums welcomed her with the cold indifference of a city built on desperation. She found shelter in a crumbling tenement, a place where the air was thick with the scent of rust and mildew, where the walls groaned under the weight of their decay. But it was a place to rest, to breathe.

Days blurred into weeks, then months. She worked where she could- scrubbing factory floors, mending torn garments, selling whatever scraps she could barter. She spoke little, kept her head down, and made sure no one saw the shimmer of power that still lived beneath her skin.

Her daughter, whom she named (Y/N), grew into the shadows of the Lanes. She never knew the wind-chimes of Ionia, never saw the blossoms bloom in spring, never ran through the open fields where the spirits once roamed. Instead, she learned the rhythm of the Undercity- the hiss of steam vents, the distant hum of chem-tech engines, the quiet desperation in every hushed conversation.

She would watch her at night, curled up in the dim glow of a flickering light, and wonder what kind of life she had truly given her.

Safe. But at what cost?

One evening, as Nayesa walked home through the winding alleys, she heard a sound that froze her blood.

Laughter.

A child’s laughter, light and unburdened, echoed through the filth and grime of the Undercity’s streets.

She turned the corner and saw (Y/N), no longer a baby but a bright-eyed child, her tiny hands outstretched as small, golden sparks danced at her fingertips. A wonder, a gift- one that could get them both killed.

Nayesa’s heart pounded.

Magic is a death sentence.

The war may have been left behind, but its lessons had not.

She rushed forward, scooping (Y/N) into her arms, extinguishing the light with a whispered hush.

No one could see. No one could know.

She had sacrificed everything for her daughter’s safety.

And now, the Undercity would demand its own price.

It was a city that took as much as it gave, swallowing the desperate and forgotten whole. Nayesa had always known it would come for her too, sooner or later.

For seven years, she scraped by in the underbelly of the city, enduring the choking smog, the filth-ridden streets, and the cold that seeped into her bones. She endured it all for (Y/N). Every coin she earned, every sleepless night, every bruise from the fists of those who thought a refugee woman was an easy target- it was all for her daughter.

(Y/N) was bright and full of wonder despite the bleak world around her. She didn’t remember the war, the flames that consumed their home, or the screams that once haunted Nayesa’s nights. To her, Ionia was nothing more than stories murmured in hushed tones, tales of Magic and rivers that whispered secrets to those who listened. Nayesa never told her the full truth of their exile, only that they had left because it was too dangerous to stay.

But the real danger wasn’t behind them- it was here, in the Lanes, lurking in the shadows, waiting.

Nayesa had felt the sickness creeping into her body long before she admitted it to herself. The air in the lower districts was thick with toxins, a slow, creeping poison that gnawed at her lungs. Every cough was deeper, wetter. Every breath was a struggle. There were chem-doctors in the Lanes who could cure anything- for a price. But Nayesa had no money for miracles.

She worked until she couldn’t stand. Then, she worked more.

She didn’t tell (Y/N). She couldn’t.

But children saw more than adults ever gave them credit for.

"Momma, why are you always so tired?" (Y/N) asked one night, her small fingers tracing the lines of her mother’s weathered hands.

Nayesa smiled, brushing a stray lock of soft hair from her daughter’s face. "Because I have the best little girl in the world to take care of," she said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "And that’s worth everything."

But love alone wasn’t enough to keep her alive.

One morning, Nayesa didn’t wake up.

(Y/N) shook her at first, small hands gripping the worn fabric of her mother’s cloak. "Momma?" she whispered, her voice uncertain, scared.

She didn’t move.

The room was cold. The single candle by the bedside had long since burned out, leaving only the distant glow of the Undercity’s ever-present green smog filtering through the cracks in the walls.

(Y/N) curled up beside her mother, waiting for her to wake up. She didn’t understand. Not yet.

It wasn’t until hours later, when the gnawing ache of hunger set in, that the truth began to sink in.

Her mother wasn’t waking up.

She was alone.

No one in the Lanes cared about another dead refugee. There were no mourning bells, no neighbors offering condolences. By nightfall, scavengers would come, rifling through their tiny home for anything of value.

(Y/N) didn't wait for them.

She packed what little she could- her mother’s old cloak, a handful of stolen ration bars, a rusty knife too dull to be a real weapon- and ran.

The streets of the Undercity were not kind to the weak.

She learned quickly. How to steal without being seen. How to disappear when Enforcers patrolled too close. How to navigate the tangled maze of pipes, vents, and back alleys that served as the lifeblood of the Undercity.

She was small, fast, invisible. And she was hungry.

The first time she stole from a chem merchant’s stall, she was caught. A rough hand yanked her back, slamming her against a wall.

"Little rat," the man snarled, his breath reeking of grease and sour alcohol. "Think you can take from me?"

(Y/n) trembled, her fingers curling instinctively. A warmth flickered in her palms, tiny sparks of golden light dancing between her fingers.

Magic.

No. No, no, no.

She clenched her fists, forcing it down, burying it deep. Her mother’s warning echoed in her mind.

Magic is a death sentence.

She braced herself for the beating- but it never came.

Instead, another voice cut through the heavy air.

"Let her go."

A boy, older than her, stood in the shadows of the alley. His arms were crossed, his clothes patched and dirt-streaked, but his gaze was sharp, calculating. His black hair covered his eyes a bit, too short to tie back, too long to look completely neat. "She’s with us."

The merchant sneered but let her go with a shove. "Keep your rats on a leash…" he spat before stalking off.

(Y/N) coughed, her ribs aching, but she turned to the boy, confused. "I’m not with you…" she said, wary.

"You are now," he replied simply.

And just like that, (Y/N) found herself among the lost children of the Lanes- the orphans, the runaways, the ones who had no homes… Vander, Silco, and Felicia… They moved like ghosts through the city, stealing to survive, hiding in the forgotten corners where the Enforcers wouldn’t dare to tread.

(Y/N) learned their ways. How to fight, how to climb, how to read the shifting tides of the city’s underworld. But most importantly, how to keep her secret.

She never used her magic. Not once.

Not until the day she had no choice.

It happened during a heist gone wrong- when she was fourteen...

They had planned everything perfectly- distract the shopkeeper, grab the goods, and slip away before anyone noticed. But no plan ever survived the chaos of The Undercity.

The Enforcers came down on them fast, too fast. (Y/N) ran, her breath sharp in her chest, her feet pounding against metal grates and uneven cobblestone. She took a wrong turn- a dead end.

The Enforcers were closing in.

She panicked.

A flicker of warmth ignited in her palm. Then a spark. Then a flame.

Golden light flared to life, illuminating the alleyway in brilliant, searing heat. The Enforcers reeled back, blinded, startled.

And (Y/N) ran.

She ran until her legs gave out, until she collapsed in a forgotten corner of the city, her heart slamming against her ribs.

She had been careful. She had hidden it for years… But now they would come for her. In The Undercity, secrets never stayed hidden for long…

For seven years, she had hidden what she was. Buried it beneath bruised knuckles and nimble fingers, beneath the hunger and the cold, beneath the fight to survive. But now, the secret she had fought to keep was out. Maybe not fully- but it was a crack, and cracks always widened.

The others would know soon enough.

She couldn’t go back. Not yet. Not with the heat still on her.

So, she disappeared into the veins of the Undercity, into the places where the air stank of rot and rust, where even Enforcers hesitated to follow. The tunnels beneath the city were a maze- only those born to the Lanes could navigate them, and (Y/N) had lived here long enough to know every passage, every broken grate, every hidden crawlspace.

She found a hollow space beneath a collapsed structure and curled into it, pressing her back against the damp stone, pulling her knees to her chest. She needed to think. To plan.

But plans meant nothing when Silco was the one sent to find you. Silco moved through the Undercity like a shadow, his sharp eyes scanning every alley, every abandoned structure. He knew how to track a runaway. They all did; life had made them that way.

Felicia had been worried, of course. "She’s been gone too long," she had muttered, arms crossed, trying to mask her concern. "What if the Enforcers-"

"She’s fine," Vander had cut in, though his frown betrayed his doubts. "She’s one of us."

And Silco? He hadn’t said much. He had only grabbed a knife and set out.

(Y/N) was fast. Smart. She knew how to disappear.

But he knew her.

He knew the places she went when she wanted to be alone, the paths she took when she needed to breathe. And more than that- he knew fear.

He had seen it in her when they ran from the heist, when the Enforcers had almost caught them. But there was something else, something deeper in the way she had looked at them before she fled.

Not fear of getting caught.

Fear of being seen.

It gnawed at him as he moved through the city, picking his way through the forgotten tunnels. If she was hurt, if someone else had found her first-

No. He pushed the thought away. He would find her.

The search had fractured them into three silent battalions. Felicia, driven by equal parts concern and duty, combed through the labyrinthine upper corridors where the stale, clinging mist of decay blurred every step. Vander took a divergent route, his methodical pace revealing an unspoken determination as he retraced familiar paths that had once served as escape routes. And then there was Silco- moving like a whisper among the ruins, his focus as sharp as the blade he carried.

In the winding gloom beneath a collapsed structure, Silco’s calculated steps slowed as a fragile form emerged from the darkness.

She was curled up beneath a collapsed structure, half-hidden in the darkness, her body taut with exhaustion. She looked smaller like this, the rough edge she carried worn down by fear and fatigue.

For a moment, he just watched her.

"You gonna come out," he finally said, his voice calm, "or do I have to drag you?"

(Y/N)’s head snapped up, her eyes sharp and alert despite her exhaustion. She hesitated, her muscles coiled like a cornered animal.

"You alone?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

Silco scoffed. "No, I brought a whole damn parade." He stepped forward, crouching slightly so she wouldn’t bolt. "What the hell happened back there, (Y/N)?"

She swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. "We got sloppy."

"Not what I meant." His gaze didn’t waver. "You ran like they were hunting you."

(Y/N) flinched, just slightly, but Silco caught it.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Finally, she exhaled, looking away. "I just… I can’t go back yet."

Silco tilted his head, studying her. "Why?"

She bit her lip, hesitating.

Because I have magic. Because I lost control. Because if you knew, you’d never look at me the same way again.

But she couldn’t say that.

So instead, she forced a smirk, weak but convincing. "Didn’t feel like dealing with Vander’s lectures."

Silco snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, well, you’re gonna hear them anyway. So get up."

She didn’t move.

Silco’s smirk faded. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You don’t have to tell me, you know. But whatever’s got you scared?" He straightened up, eyes dark. "Don’t let it turn you into prey."

(Y/N) looked at him then, something unspoken passing between them.

Silco had always been sharp, always seeing things others missed. Maybe he didn’t know the truth yet. But he knew something.

And that was dangerous.

Still, she took his outstretched hand...

[fervonian]

some miscellanious headcanons for the dash today as a treat... maybe some of them won't be angsty.

irelia was primarily homeschooled. it is known in her lore that she received education for silk dancing at the placidium under zinneia's tutelage, but xan lito, her father, encouraged her love for reading both fictional and historical works. standard literacy and numeracy skills are taught to most ionian children, but irelia was raised at a higher standard.

in my canon, blade dancing ( kenbu, 剣舞: sword dance ) as a tool for war was a lost ionian technique that has been revived by irelia as well as ionia's school of silk dancing. the graceful and powerful dances of ionia's history were a tool to defend her people the whole time. as for the forty - two forms irelia mentioned, they have been developed over time by herself and other accomplished dancers during and after the first war. many are extrapolated from old texts, but all have been tested in combat.

incorporating irelia's tie in with life and death from her old lore, irelia did come very close to death in her battle against admiral duqal: the man responsible for the massacre of her family & village. that experience contributed heavily to her losing most of her brash attitude, her brush with death combined with her actually acknowledging just how many people are counting on her is what ultimately tempered irelia's self sacrificial streak.

irelia has a tattoo of the xan family crest on her spine. another way she remembers her family is by a custom crafted necklace. the piece is eight coloured glass beads with a thin gold chain threaded through them. after her relationship with liana, she would likely get a flower & sword tattoo on her arm.

aside from her signature flying blades, irelia is an accomplished sword fighter. she can also use the bow and arrow, albeit at a lower standard than she would prefer. the captain of the guard had undergone a lot of strength training in order to feel comfortable swinging a more traditional sword around. in kenbu, strength isn't strictly unnecessary but it is secondary to flexibility, endurance, and stamina.

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

Because I know we talked about it but also because I know it's smthn u enjoy thinking about: How much has Tarhos corrupted Haru and how much of it is just the darkin is a God, corrupted as he may be, that actually answered his prayers unlike the others?

✧ ── 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 LEAGUE VERSE

Something that makes Haruo and Tarhos' relationship unique is, at least to me, their joined mindspace - while Rhaast and Kayn can communicate telepathically and can read eachother it is still two separate beings bickering with one another. For Haruko and Tarhos the line is much more blurred; they experience eachother's feelings and desires, hear each single thought and even have shared dreams. They are less "two people in one body" and much more "one person in two bodies" in terms of how they can communicate with eachother, I mean technically if we wanted to get really into it we could debate about how there is no true unified "self" but rather a fractaling recursion of self-repeating selves - think about how your conscience talks to you in your own voice or how you ask yourself questions and you answer them - that. Its incredibly complicated to try to explain in a tumblr post but that is how, for myself at least, Haru and Tarhos operate. Tarhos and Haru can hear the other one talking and know its not them doing it but it still feels like their own thought. I hope that makes sense because it's only going to get worse from here -

While that isn't necessarily the question I do think its an important thing to distinct when speaking about them; before Tarhos found a vessel they basically acted as a singular unit anyway - I doubt that mindset would change much once he took over the dragon in Ionia. So, beginning with that I'm going to continue on and say that I don't think Haru was "corrupted" so much as he was validated. Before the Noxian invasion Haruko was most likely living peacefully in Bahrl with his village and family, there was tension between Vastayans and Humans as always but he didn't go out comitting murder for fun. He just simply did not interact with them or care enough to - and I really don't think he cared about or even knew about Noxus. Based on that alone we can see a distinct difference from the past to present, and I do think that has a large chunk to do with Tarhos. Darkin are PTSD ridden forgotten Gods whose last moments feeling sunlight were surrounded by the rise of the Void, and the fall of Azir along with the Empire of Shurima - and when Haruko first found Tarhos, the blade was eager for bloodshed and violence.

Upon first contact their minds partially merged, Haru's strength of spirit was able to dominate and shackle back Tarhos' possession of him for the most part, but not completely. The battle was fought and Haruko fled having lost practically everything within a single day by an unknown force that brutalized without mercy - which I'm sure is an event Tarhos can understand way too well. This is where the validation and mind-merging come into play; even if Tarhos did not actively say anything to Haru at that time, Haru can still feel what Tarhos is and vice versa. Within Tarhos' own bloodlust and hatred towards the Void Haru felt validated and correct in his anger and immediate dehumanization of Noxians; seeing them as a plague to Ionia much like the Void is a plague to Shurima. Once the mind has decided to dehumanize it is very easy for people to fall into acts of violence without any reprise or guilt over them; its happened many a time throughout history and is still happening today. And that is very hard to change once its cemented, particularly through a place of deeply rooted trauma which resulted in a cultural and territorial genocide. One of which the very land has still not healed from.

Haru does view Tarhos as a God too - he is one - and to have those views validated and reaffirmed by something so universally larger than him screams to him that he is correct. Tarhos didn't have any bit of a healthy mindset when they originally met, they were both spiteful and livid at the world around them - and violence always breeds violence, anger breeds anger etc. With Tarhos healing though it does leave an actively larger question regarding that original validation; does it still hold as much as it should? Haru hates Noxians so much and frankly would be fine if they were eradicated, but that seems a very sharp shift for a creature thats lived in relative peace for 300+ years. Anger is often a mask we wear to hide things we're not ready to face yet, its the brain defending itself from whatever ugly can of worms needs to be opened but will really really hurt when it eventually does.

In short, Haru has found comfort, validation, and solace in a bloodthirsty God which reaffirms his fury and approves of it - he isn't getting any help for the legitimate reasons he's like this - and until he does there won't be any end to it. I don't think he was corrupted, I think Tarhos' just helped pour gasoline ontop of a small fire and both of them let it explode without really thinking about the consequences afterwards or why the fire was there to begin with.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 28: A New Dawn Arises

The chamber was dimly lit by a brazier in the corner, its embers casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. The scent of sweat, leather, and blood still clung to Ulf’s skin, despite the change of clothes. She paced restlessly, her white tunic loose on her frame, her brown trousers tucked into sturdy boots.

Badwen stood before her, unmoving, her arms crossed over her broad chest. Her flabby frame was still smeared with battle grime, her black armor scratched but unbroken. She watched Ulf with an expression of patience, though her lips pressed into a thin line.

"You freed him?" Ulf’s voice was sharp, cutting through the thick air between them. "You—of all people—released Hate? Why?"

Badwen did not flinch. "Because it was the only way to end the war without tearing the Domination apart."

Ulf scoffed, shaking her head. "So you betray your Queen’s daughter for a traitor?"

"I serve my Queen," Badwen said evenly. "And I serve you. Even when you don’t understand it."

Ulf stopped pacing, turning to glare at her. "And why should I ever trust you when I become Queen?"

Badwen’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening. "Because the duty of a servant is to serve her master," she said firmly. "Even when her master is wrong."

"Wrong?" Ulf took a step closer, her red eyes blazing. "You dare to tell me I was wrong?"

"I dare nothing," Badwen said. "I did what was necessary. If Queen Ionia had sent assassins, it would have been cowardice. A human act. And we are better than humans."

Ulf exhaled sharply. She hated how much that stung, because it was true. The thought of an Orcish Queen stooping to such treachery made her tusks clench. Orcs settled their battles with strength, not shadows.

Badwen saw the flicker of realization in Ulf’s expression and pressed on.

"Snagkill could only be defeated by an Orc without allegiance," she said. "Hate was that Orc. He had nothing to lose and everything to prove. It had to be him."

Ulf’s hands curled into fists. "And what if he had lost? What if Snagkill had crushed him and marched his army into the city, burned Gelberg to the ground?"

"Then I would have fought and died alongside you," Badwen said without hesitation.

Ulf stared at her.

Badwen took a step forward, lowering her voice. "I do not expect you to thank me. I do not expect you to forgive me. But I did what had to be done. And I would do it again."

Silence stretched between them. The fire crackled in the brazier, filling the air with the scent of charred wood.

Finally, Ulf exhaled.

"Damn you, Badwen," she muttered.

Badwen smirked, turned to leave and spoke over her shoulder. "You’re welcome, Princess."

Ulf gritted her teeth—but she could not deny it. Badwen was right.

The heavy wooden door shut behind Badwen with a dull thud, leaving Ulf alone in the chamber—at least for a moment. She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple, but before she could collect her thoughts, the door creaked open again.

Goreboar stepped inside, his heavy boots scuffing against the stone. He had cleaned up from battle, but the bandages around his thigh and the stiff way he moved betrayed his injuries. His trim leather jerkin was fastened tight over his broad chest, and his sharp eyes flickered in the dim firelight.

The air between them tensed like a drawn bowstring.

Ulf forced herself to relax, to breathe. This was Goreboar, her betrothed, her friend. She gestured toward the room, an attempt at ease. "The war is over."

Goreboar nodded but said nothing.

She cleared her throat and continued, shifting awkwardly. "And with the rebellion crushed, we can finally turn our attention to Acury. The humans won’t stay idle for long. We’ll need to—”

"Do you still love him?" Goreboar’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Ulf froze.

She looked at him, at the way his jaw clenched, his tusks tight against his lips. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even accusing. He just… wanted to know.

Her shoulders sagged. "Goreboar—"

"Just tell me the truth, Ulf."

She sighed, running a hand over her face before answering. "I… I don’t know."

Goreboar’s nostrils flared. He took a step closer, his voice thick. "I've always loved you, Ulf. Since we were young. Since before Hate was ever a name on your lips. Why can’t you love me back?"

Her chest tightened. "I want to," she said softly. "And in a way, I do. But my heart—" She shook her head, frustrated with herself. "I still feel the pain of Hate’s betrayal. And despite everything, despite knowing better, part of me…" She trailed off.

Goreboar studied her. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Then I will prove myself," he said firmly. "I will show you that I am worthy of your hand."

He turned, his wounded leg stiff but steady as he strode to the door.

Ulf swallowed, watching him go. The door shut behind him, leaving her alone once more.

She pressed a hand to her chest.

She had fought in wars. She had stood against horrors from the Underkingdom. She had faced death more times than she could count.

And yet, somehow, this—this uncertain, tangled mess of love and loyalty—felt like the hardest battle of all.

Goreboar's breath came in shallow gasps as the door slammed shut behind him. He had barely made it down the corridor before the pain in his shoulder became unbearable. The cold stone of the wall met his back as he leaned against it, groaning in frustration. His hand instinctively moved to his shoulder, pressing against the dull ache. Then the pain flared, sharp and sudden, and he cried out, his vision momentarily darkening.

Grimacing, he tore at his jerkin, pulling it open with a grunt. His green skin beneath was marred by the strange, inky black mark that now spread across his shoulder and down his chest. The vine-like pattern seemed to pulse with an eerie, unnatural life. A chill crept down his spine as he traced the contours of the wound with a trembling hand. What was this? What had he touched? The vine-like scar was curling up his arm, dark and almost alive.

For Ulf, he reminded himself through clenched teeth. Stay strong. You have to stay strong.

He shook off the creeping fear, trying to focus. The last thing he needed was to lose himself in pain and confusion. He was needed—he had a role to play, a promise to fulfill. Ulf...

But just as he was about to push himself away from the wall, a sharp sound sliced through the silence—the scrape of leather against stone. Goreboar spun, his tusks bared, only to find a figure cloaked in shadow, her form lithe and unyielding.

Purtgurz, Mistress of Shadows. Her presence was always like the creeping darkness, unsettling and cold. She stood just inside the corridor, her hood pulled low to obscure most of her face. Her eyes, however, gleamed with an unsettling awareness beneath the shadowed rim.

At her feet, two halflings, their heads bowed in respect, clung to her side. Their beady eyes flicked between Goreboar and their mistress, both quiet and obedient.

Goreboar sneered as his eyes flicked to the hunched forms of Purtgurz’s halfling slaves—ratlings, as some called them. The little creatures clung to her shadow, their beady eyes darting about, always listening, always watching. Disgust coiled in his gut. Orcs fought, bled, and won their power with strength, not by skulking in the dark like vermin. Yet Purtgurz wielded them like knives, slipping them into places no Orc could tread, whispering their secrets into her waiting ears. It was a coward’s tool, unworthy of an Orc—but then again, Purtgurz had always been something other than a true warrior of the Domination.

Goreboar’s snarl deepened. What does she want with me now? He knew her reputation all too well. The Spy Mistress, the shadow that lingered behind every secret and every whisper.

"Had enough of the fighting already?" Purtgurz’s voice was low, almost melodic, but there was an edge to it—sharp and predatory. She took a slow step forward, the shadows seeming to swirl around her, casting her in an almost otherworldly glow. "Or are you... weakened by something else?"

Goreboar’s hand instinctively went to the wound on his shoulder, as though trying to hide it, but Purtgurz’s keen eyes were already on him. Her gaze flickered to the vine-like marks stretching across his chest.

"You know something, don’t you?" He growled, his voice rough. "What is this?"

Purtgurz’s lips curled into a thin smile, her eyes flashing with amusement. "What is it that troubles you, Goreboar? That mark... it’s not from battle, is it?"

Goreboar narrowed his eyes, his stance shifting as he prepared to defend himself, his teeth gritting against the pain. "You’ll speak plainly, spy. What do you know?"

The halflings stirred at her feet, but they did not speak, leaving Purtgurz to answer in her own time. She raised a slender finger, pointing at the vine-like scar, her voice soft and knowing. "You’ve encountered something... other than Orcish strength. Something older. Something that’s not meant for you."

Goreboar’s pulse quickened, and he felt the knot in his stomach tighten. Other? He wanted to lash out, but something held him back, the uncertainty in his own flesh too much to fight through.

"What is it?" His voice came out more urgently now, his instincts clawing at him. "What does it mean?!"

Purtgurz’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it—only cold calculation. "It means you’re more than just an Orc now, Goreboar. What you’ve touched... has marked you." She stepped closer, her presence suffocating in its darkness. "And whether you like it or not, you’re a part of something much bigger than the Domination now. But don’t worry, warrior. It’s all in your blood, after all."

The halflings behind her looked to each other, then back to Goreboar, but they said nothing, remaining as silent as their mistress.

Goreboar’s blood turned to ice in his veins, but his resolve did not waver. He clenched his fists, his jaw tight. "And what do you want with me, Purtgurz?"

She tilted her head, as though considering him carefully. "I want nothing more than to offer... assistance." Her voice had dropped to a whisper. "After all, I’m not the only one who knows the price of power. You’ve been chosen by it, just as I have. It’s only a matter of time before you understand."

Goreboar shook his head, trying to push the sick feeling away. Chosen? Was that what this was? Had he been cursed, or was this something else entirely?

"I have no time for riddles, Purtgurz." He growled. "What do you want from me?"

She stepped back, her dark eyes gleaming with that unnerving certainty. "I need you to understand something, Goreboar. In this game, the rules are always changing. You’re no longer just a pawn. You’re something... more." She straightened, glancing over her shoulder at the halflings. "And when you’re ready, I’ll be here."

Without another word, she turned, her presence melting back into the shadows. The halflings followed her silently, disappearing into the corridor, leaving Goreboar standing there alone, the weight of her words pressing down on him.

He hissed in pain, feeling the burn of the mark once again. What had he gotten himself into?

Meanwhile, outside in the city...

Gelberg lay in ruin, its once-mighty walls cracked and crumbling, its streets littered with debris and the bodies of the fallen. Fires smoldered in the distance, sending greasy plumes of smoke into the bruised evening sky. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and ash, mingling with the low moans of the wounded and the grief-stricken wails of the bereaved.

An Orc mother knelt in the rubble, her great shoulders shaking as she wept over the crushed body of her son, a boy barely old enough to wield a blade, now flattened beneath a massive chunk of stone hurled from a catapult. Not far from her, warriors struggled to pull an unconscious Orc from the wreckage of a collapsed house. His legs were twisted unnaturally, his green skin palliid from blood loss. A healer muttered darkly; the chances of saving him were slim.

In the streets, little Orc whelps sobbed outside the splintered remains of their home, their eyes wide with fear, their cries unanswered. Their parents were nowhere to be seen—dead, or buried beneath the wreckage. Thralls, the human and dwarf slaves of the Domination, scurried through the chaos, their heads down, their eyes darting nervously as they tried to avoid drawing attention. Some vanished into the shadows, knowing their masters were too distracted to watch them closely now.

The devastation of Gelberg stretched from the ruined gates to the very heart of the city. Smoke curled from shattered buildings, the stench of scorched wood and charred flesh thick in the air. The once-proud avenues, where Orcs had marched in strength and song, were now clogged with rubble and corpses. Pools of blood mixed with rainwater, forming crimson rivers that trickled down the broken cobblestones.

A great statue of Arrowcatcher lay toppled in the central square, its stone face cracked in half, one tusk shattered. Once a symbol of Orcish might, now it was a grim testament to the city's suffering. Near its fallen form, a group of weary warriors dug through the remains of a collapsed armory, pulling out the crushed and twisted bodies of their kin.

Near the marketplace, the great bazaar that had once overflowed with trade and raucous laughter was a smoldering ruin. Stalls lay overturned, their wares scattered and trampled. A wagon full of grain had been set ablaze, the fire licking hungrily at the remains of nearby shops. A butcher, his apron still stained with the blood of animals long since slaughtered, sat with his back to a blackened post, staring blankly at nothing. His shop was gone, his family missing.

A temple dedicated to MOG stood battered but unbroken, its stone walls pockmarked by ballista bolts and scorched from fire. A priestess knelt in the entrance, her robes soaked with the blood of those she had tried to save. The bodies of the faithful lay in heaps around her, some still clutching their weapons, others frozen in final prayers.

Elsewhere, an old Orc war veteran sat on the steps of his ruined home, his tusks chipped, his arm limp and broken. He muttered to himself, over and over, a battle hymn from wars long past. His granddaughter clung to his side, her tiny fists balled in his tattered cloak, her young mind struggling to comprehend the ruin around her.

The harbor, once the pride of Gelberg’s trade, was in chaos. Ships burned, their hulls splitting apart as they sank into the murky waters. The docks were littered with bodies, some Orcish, some Darkfire rebels, all abandoned in the struggle. The tide carried the dead out to sea, their green and gray forms bobbing in the surf like driftwood.

And through it all, the people of Gelberg moved like ghosts—some searching for lost loved ones, others digging graves, others simply staring at the ruin of their home. The city had endured, but barely. Now, as night fell, it did not sleep. It held its breath, waiting for what horrors would come next.

Then...

A week had passed since the fires of war had been extinguished in Gelberg, yet the city still bore the scars of battle. Even so, it was no longer a place of mourning but of labor and purpose. Orcs from every corner of the Gelbeg Domination flooded into the city, some bearing the marks of past battles, others fresh-faced and eager to serve. They came with tools to rebuild, with strong backs to lift the shattered walls, and with weapons to answer the coming war. The past divisions of Darkfire rebels and loyalists were buried beneath a common cause—survival.

The sounds of construction filled the air. Great cranes, fashioned from timber hauled from distant forests, hoisted massive stones to repair the sundered walls. Orcish masons worked tirelessly, their muscular arms coated in dust and sweat as they sealed cracks and reinforced the city's defenses. The great gates, once splintered by siege, were being replaced with thicker iron-bound wood, stronger than before. The marketplace, once a ruin, was seeing the first signs of revival as merchants returned, their stalls rising like new shoots after a wildfire.

In the vast courtyard below the Orcish Hall, warbands gathered in massive formations, banners snapping in the cold morning wind. They came to pledge their blades, their blood, and their lives to the Domination. Some were warriors who had fought in the civil war and now sought redemption, others were young warriors eager for their first taste of battle, while hardened veterans stood silent, their tusks stained from decades of conflict.

From the high balcony of the Orcish Hall, Queen Ionia and Ulf watched their people rally. The Queen stood resplendent in a gown of black and crimson, the colors of the Domination, the bodice tight against her ample frame, its metalwork etched with the snarling faces of the ancestors. A golden crown adorned her head, thick with rubies and shaped like a warhelm, a symbol of her rule as both sovereign and warrior. She held herself with the weight of years, her presence undeniable despite her human blood.

Ulf, standing beside her, loomed over her mother like a shadow of steel and flesh. Clad in a flowing gown of deep green, belted with golden chains, her arms and shoulders remained bare, displaying the scars of countless battles. Her black hair, tied back in a simple ponytail, allowed her striking red eyes to shine with unrelenting intensity. A crown of black iron sat upon her head, wickedly spiked and resting just beneath her tall, pointed ears. She was the future of the Domination—Orcish to her core, fierce, unyielding.

“They come in droves,” Ulf muttered, surveying the gathering forces. “Not just to rebuild, but to fight. The Domination stands as one, once again. The old ways, the warband rivalries… they’re fading. It took the civil war to forge us into something greater.”

Ionia nodded, her expression unreadable. “It took the brink of ruin to remind us of what we have built. But this unity comes at a cost, daughter. We face the humans now, and they will not hesitate to burn everything we have struggled for.”

“Acury is strong,” Ulf admitted, gripping the stone railing, “but they have never faced an enemy like us. The first true Orcish nation. We will not kneel.”

“No,” Ionia agreed, her voice rich with finality. “We will not.”

The mother and daughter shared a glance—one of mutual understanding, of shared purpose. The time for mourning was over. Now was the time for war.

With a final look over the assembled warriors, they turned and strode into the castle interior, their crowns glinting in the torchlight. The warbands awaited their Queen’s decree. The Domination would march, and Acury would tremble.

As the great iron doors of the throne room swung open, Queen Ionia and Ulf strode forth into the grand hall of Gelberg’s heart. The floor was still stained with the blood of the recent war, the great tapestries had been torn, and braziers burned low, casting flickering shadows upon the gathered warbands. Yet the air was thick with something electric—a simmering hunger, a yearning for more.

Trailing behind them, ever-vigilant, were their two sworn guardians. Badwen, her massive frame wrapped in thick plate and fur, walked with the quiet, deliberate gait of a warrior always prepared to strike. At her side hung a wickedly slender crimson colored sword, a thing of brutal efficiency. Beside her, Hate moved with an unsettling grace for a warrior so immense, his fat layering over coiled muscle, his thick hands resting on the pommels of twin blackened daggers. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, though those closest to him could sense the tension simmering beneath his affable smirk.

On the highest step, Ionia turned to face her people, placing one foot forward and planting it firmly upon the stone. At her side, Jukkavice lay like a sleeping beast, its blackened steel shot through with veins of pulsing red, still wet with the lifeblood of her enemies. A hush fell over the gathered thousands as her crimson eyes swept the horde. Then she spoke.

“Orcs of the Domination, hear me. Our city bears its wounds, our dead lie in the streets, but tell me—what of it? We are Orcs! What in this wretched world can break us?”

A rolling cry of defiance filled the night, shaking the broken walls. Ulf stood at her side, her heart pounding as the crowd roared.

“This war that has divided us is over! The pretender Snagkill is slain! His warbands are leaderless! The rebellion is crushed beneath our heel, and the true war—our war—begins at last!”

The chant swelled again, fists raised high, bellies drummed like war drums. Hate, standing at the top of the stairs beside Badwen, let his tusks flash in a grin as he surveyed the gathered horde, his massive arms crossed over his thick chest.

“We have been attacked! The humans of Acury believed we were weak. That they could strike us and we would cower. But we do not cower. We have never cowered! We are Domination! We are the storm! We are the horde that sweeps over this world! Sidhedark is ours to rule, not because it is given to us, but because we will take it!”

The Orcs erupted in raw, frenzied cheers, stamping their feet and beating their bellies, their voices a deafening tide of sound. The clanging of axes against shields created a harsh metallic symphony.

Ionia lifted Jukkavice, and the crimson veins within the blade seemed to pulse like a living thing. “Acury shall be the first! We will break them, burn them, and build something stronger in their place. The war is over, but our destiny begins now!”

The crowd surged forward, their voices swelling in an ear-shaking roar. Warriors pounded their chests, roaring their devotion. The chants of “Hail Ionia! Hail Ulf!” echoed through the ruined streets, loud enough to wake the gods beneath the stone.

Standing there, flanked by Badwen and Hate, Ulf felt the truth settle in her bones. The civil war was over.

A new war had just begun.

[yanlei]

❛ i had it under control. you didn’t need to do that. ❜

» — ⌜ 𝑰𝑪 𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑺 &. 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺.⌟

— @gutterblade

A scoff is the first reply the younger assassin receives, cold metal and gleaming red eyes concealing any expression the 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐒 may have shown. The boy's own attempt at hiding his features is crude, he thinks, face only half obscured by the hood — and his blades, dark steel shaped with due refinement, denounce his origin more immediately than his speech. 𝑵𝑶𝑿𝑰𝑨𝑵.

Lucky for him Zed doesn't immediately kill any lost noxian boys he comes across.

❝ Maybe — or maybe the moment that necromancer finished saying those words you'd have a far bigger problem to contend with and the Brotherhood would have ended you. ❞ Spoken casually, though he does not sheathe his blades just yet. Giving a chance was, after all, a far cry from leaving himself open to someone who may as well prove a bigger threat than he seems.

There's something familiar about the boy, and Zed tries to remember if they ever met before. If they have, the memory eludes him but for the distant, shapeless feeling of recognition. He decides it'll come to him in time, if it's important at all. ❝ A 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑲 𝒀𝑶𝑼 wouldn't go amiss, ❞

❝ But I'd rather know what's your business in Ionia, noxian. Especially in Yanlei territory. ❞

[teeto-peteto]

Question: Has there ever been a champion that you've wanted to like, but due to one reason or another, gameplay, design, voice performance, it just couldn't get all the way? Does that make sense?

augh a lot of them sadly.

Briar is the most recent one, i already adressed it in a recent post. I dont like they just made her anime highschool girl shaped, i think her design would have been stronger is she was uncanny skinny, it would fit better on her 'failed experiment with terrible hunger' concept and its a lost opportunity to make a character creepy and unsettling as Fiddlesticks was on its release. Im very bothered by her body type (wich is not bad but you know, repetitive), and if your team picks her its an insta loose so let me tell you its also not funny to play with one, i dont think she's well designed in the abilities department. I tried to like her because well, she's ''''''unusual'''''', but the type of unusualness that turns boring after a few days and then you just realize that she's just another pretty girl with Patrick Star personality.

aside from that i think i have opinions that most of the community would highly dissagree on so, sorry.

Irelia's rework didnt stick good on me. And i wanted to like her very badly but there's things that i just dont like on her that make me go 'eh' and play or think about another toplaner. Aside from making all of her skins exactly the same (you know, exact hair lenght just put like buns or other minor additions to the hair, the exact same dress piece, etc). I appreciate the rework in the artistic department but... I think her old blade was way more interesting that what she has going on right now, i understand why her blades are like this now, resembling the floating stones and all the 'power of nature and flow' that Ionia has around... but, i just dont like it. Her new lines are an improvement though, i cant really remember any lines from the old Irelia so, it's interesting how she gets to talk about her family, war, etc. One thing that bugs me the most is the Ice blade Irelia splashart... You know exactly what im talking about. I just cannot wrap my head around it. Actually imagine going to the artist and telling them 'Hey we need this new splashart for this Irelia skin, but like enhance her ass the most cause fans really loved it' ...bruh.

I know its a unpopular opinion and that she is a fan favourite and anyone could stab my throat if i say it but... I cant stand Akali. Like, at all. And i desperately tried to like her, i tried to like her on K/DA but it never works out. I tried playing her trying to somewhat bond and understand her but it doesnt work out. Look, original Akali wasnt good. I admit it, she was a copy and paste of Jade from Mortal Kombat. But the rework... It hurted me. I just couldnt understand why did they make her so... bratty, so 'pick me' type of girl, this kind of 'im rebel blehhhh' kind of person... Wich isnt bad in essence but, they made her so utterly exaggerated that it annoys me. I dont understand why they made her fall off of the Kinkou that badly and make her relationship with Shen this father-bratty daughter that rolls her eyes everytime he talks it makes me want to peel my skin with my nails. Her model update was definetly a glow up that im thankful for and she looks amazing, but... she is a pick me girl. She's the 'im not like the other girls' 'im not like my mom' 'im not like the other girls in ionia who believe in balance' and it hurts. There's a lot of positive changes on her i appreciate and i applaud, i just decide not to test it on my own because i know i wont enjoy it. I tried liking her on K/DA cause WELL at least she's interacting with 3 more people (4 with Seraphine) without being a literal child in rabies. But yeah, didnt quite work, she's better, but i dont want her near me. Her glowup is good, her emotion on the lines is amazing, but her personality kicks my ass badly. And i just hate the way Riot makes all her skins exactly the same just like Irelia, almost always the same type of dress piece (literally no matter if she's wearing a suit like crime city, a witchy design like coven... its literally the same shit) and the same type of haircut, copy and pasted but with different colours.

If anything, i could never take Sona seriously, her voice lines were bad already and her update just kept being bad or even worse. I try to like her but again, sexualized and basic. Nidalee is in the same category, playing her its fun but would you sacrifice that to hear sexual innuendos every 10 seconds?

woah noticed how the champions i mentioned are female? gee i wonder why....

am i the 'mysoginistic' one because i dont like the female champions? Or are Riot the mysoginistic ones because they think making champion splasharts with special enhance on their bodies and private parts is okay and that they can make them cold-hearted emotionless specially women because making them feel a bit of emotion makes them believe that it doesnt fit what they think feminism is about but yet they decide to give them bratty/unhinged rebelious personalities so they can raise the cocks of the disgusting male fanbase so they can go 'oh bbygirl is a feisty one what a brat' and buy skins and then produce/pay for porn of these characters? hmmm....

[the-storm-chaser]

The blonde gave a small nod, glad the Detective had alternatives at the ready. In reality, these 'goons' were probably those who had just lost their way, going after travellers just to get by. It didn't make what they doing right by any means...but it's why she said what she did.

Organised groups wouldn't be stupid enough to trail them in plain view, giving them time to prepare. If they were smart, they would have jumped them while on the road, forcing them to play at a disadvantage...at least, from her experience that would have been the case.

Hearing the *click*, she was careful not to step on the Detective's trap, instead focusing on the rabble that had been following them. Ionia had many different dialects, and while she recognised most of them, she wasn't fluent in all of them. There were murmurs in languages unknown to her, but she chose to address them in the island's common tongue, one she expected them to know.

'Surely you have better places to be instead going after a couple of travellers, ne?' The woman turned to the thugs with a smirk, her hand going to draw her blade and resting it across her shoulder.

'Run along, or I assure you you'll regret it.' With that, the blade crackled, the area around her beginning to feel...heavier.

She tried to remember the best she could about either Kinkou or the Order of Shadows, but even with her network, ninja clans were notoriously hard to decypher and learn about. Though it didn't matter either way if these were just random thugs, in a way that comforted her a little bit 'Goons' were everywhere, even in the First Lands. That last comment made her audibly scoff, though she did not usually mind her guide being so snippy sometimes, Caitlyn was the one who wanted to keep things from getting too complicated.

"No need to worry, the gun is only for emergencies, and I'm more than capable of just brusing with my weapon." Still she remained quiet for the rest of the way, though she clenched the lance tighter, reading herself, if they were like the criminals back home they'd understimate them, and that'd be when she'd strike. "I do have a trap though, so if we turn and find a nice spot, I bet we could trip them up enough for them to leave us alone."

Crossing the threshold out of the city she was still looking forward though keeping her other senses on alert. When they turned she dropped a small sphere-like object on the ground, which a few moments later made a sound like a 'click' as if it was armed.

"Let's see what the catch is then..."

[unboundndd]

Omg finally someone who is willing to write for kayn 😭😭😭 I have been starved FOR AGES i'm telling you. For the past months or so all I've been thinking abt is how Kayn would develop a relationship with a reader who's from the kinkou (a whole enemies to lovers if you will). Just some general headcanons about the relationship tysm ❤️😭😭 can't wait to see more of your writing!

hELLO hello!! I swear uni has been keeping me from writing, i had no energy but i am a bit more free for now~ i’ve been starving for Kayn content too so let’s get started!!!

//tag: enemies to lovers, kayn has no idea what emotions are

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· If anybody were to ask Kayn what he thinks about you they would be met with silence. It’s normal for him as he isn’t too keen on talking about topics like this and he finds the question a bit obvious: you’re Kinkou, he’s not. You’re trying to bring back the balance that Ionia has lost back alongside Shen, which means you’re actively trying to stop him from reaching his goals and true potential.

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· If only this was what he truly thought, in fact his feelings towards you are much more complex. It’s not a mere matter of blindly hating you because of the group you’re affiliated with, it has to do with the fact that you seem to periodically appear where he is and always try to obstacle him. Despite that he has never felt the instinct to kill you, as if his brain doesn’t completely think of you as an useless nuisance.

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· The fact is that you challenge him and motivate him to get better, fighting against you doesn't trigger the same deeply engrained reflexes he'd have when killing any other Kinkou alcyote or Noxian soldier. Every encounter with you keeps him alert, reminds him of the high he gets when conquering something that isn't handed to him that easily and despite the two of you being on the opposing sides of such a difficult conflict you can't help but look for one another.

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· Accepting that you might have a crush on the man you're supposed to hate is hard, more than any normal crush. Apart from wondering if you're misinterpreting his actions like when he spared you after one of your missions went wrong or the time he patched you up as you hid from Noxian soldiers who were passing by, you also needed to conceal your feelings. If Kayn was simply toying with you he could use the feelings you grew against you, maybe this was just a cold manipulation technique to encourage you to lower your guard or maybe he couldn't feel any love at all.

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· That said you still were unable to stop staring at him during another one of your run-ins, you were both alone and your eyes would keep wandering to his lips that were perpetually graced by a confident smirk. You wanted to slap him, kiss him, anything to make him shut up and stop taunting you. It was getting to your head and soon enough you found yourself on the floor, pinned against him and with Rhaast's blade dangerously close to your neck.

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· If Rhaast's eye wasn't creepily staring at you, then at kayn and then back to you it would have been better. Maybe even enjoyable as the weight of his entire body was crushing your hips and legs, his expression wasn't revealing anything of his intentions so you had no idea if he was going to let you go or if he was done with playing with you.

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· The fact that Kayn suddenly kissed you was so far away from your possible predictions that you thought you were already dead and this was just your brain conjuring up a happy scenario to aid you in passing into the spirit realm. He wasn't exactly doing a great job, teeth clanking against yours and clumsily trying to understand what exactly he needed to do, only when you kissed him back with the same fervor did he start to finally understand what he needed to do.

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· "This is what you wanted, didn't you? Get. Out! Out of my head. It's- You're the one who's been distracting me!"

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· You were starting to feel like maybe there was a chance your feelings were reciprocated, Kayn wasn't looking like his usual confident self once he finally had to part from your lips. He was confused and angry at the fact that in the end you managed to beat him by thanks to your wit and your personality.

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· Ever since that day you and Kayn have been meeting in secret, ignoring the loyality you were both supposed to have for your respective factions. You never have as much time together as you wish and you spend your days either sparring or lazily laying in each other's arms, it mostly depends on how Kayn is feeling.

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· You're quite amused when Kayn admits to you that he's never had any kind of relationship, don't tease him for it though, not if you want him to deprive you of all of the affection you crave for the sake of sweet revenge. He loves to hear you beg for him to just kiss you or when you ask for a hug, the fact that he's the only one who will ever see you like this makes him feel very proud of himself.

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· You also find out that Rhaast has been the one guiding Kayn and telling him what people in a relationship do, he basically has a corrupted, cruel but extremely experienced wingman by his side.

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:· Sometimes you have to sneak in/out from each other's rooms when it's late at night and even though you've both been training hard to be stealthy it's still not perfect. Shen knows, and Zed does too and both have decided not to interfere for the time being. Who knows, perhaps something interesting will come out of your new relationship.

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

Staring at Tarhos outside of Robibi's garden, "What the fuck is that???" Squinting even more at Haru, "What the fuck is THAT????? Looks like an overgrown chicken-" - Danny @ Robibi league verse

═══ UNPROMPTED INTERACTIONS ═══ LEAGUE VERSE

"Place the marigold next to the newt tongue...it'll promote...Huh-- W-What was that dear? What is what?" His voice was as fleeting as hares jumping about in spring as he fashioned the layout of their cabinets, had his beloved even labeled this herbs right? Ugh... No, he didn't, this smelt almostly sourly of cilantro, why was it marked as sage? Robin jolted when Danny's voice cut through him with the sudden shift in volume, the mage finally turning to face him before his now relaxed eyelids stretched wide and horrified at the visage infront of his home. Something about that outline was too foreign, he knew it to be the shape of one of Ionia's beloved dragons, but something about it screamed wrong. Needless to say, it didn't take long for him to step into the sunlight to join at Danny's side on their porch, instinctually stepping slighly infront of him with an arm blocking him.

"Go inside, now. Let me handle this, go downstairs and hide - "

The hidden blade within his sleeve dropped into his hand to quickly block the tip of a spear that seemed to pulse with the same sickly aura of that horrific beast. Robin's wide eyes met Danny's for only a moment as he slid back, his heels catching in just enough time for him to shove his fiance back into the house and shut the door. Though that was as much as he was allowed before the blunt face of the spear slammed into his temple, his world dizzying wildly as he collapsed onto his side. His palm slipped out from under his weight twice before he finally got ahold of himself, his ivories now stained by the crimson he spat onto the wood beneath him. Two golden talons flicked downward to barely brush through his eyelashes, his body nearly jolting in fright then it occured. He thought with all of the years away from it, all of that time never fearing a thing - that perhaps he had lost the sensation of horror; however the adrenaline threading itself along each one of his nerves told him otherwise.

Damn. And he was away from his books inside too... He was never much good in hand to hand combat, without a conduit on hand this could get messy - a bloodbath waiting to happen. The mage's skull felt almost ready to crack under the pressure being exerted onto it, barely able to catch himself when he was tossed downward. Robin's worst nightmares came to fruition when he felt a hand wrap around his neck and slam him onto his spine - finally able to see the gaze of his assailant. Something ancient and wild hovered over him, periwinkle irises reflecting the gasping mess below - those eyes held not an ounce of mercy within them, there was...nothing. No, the darkness between each thread of azure seemed to wiggle and writhe - it was as thought a thousand eyes were staring at him, each a feral and wild predator ready to rip and tear him into pieces.

"Can you see me? Can you see what's reflected in my eyes?"

Hell...right infront of him. Hell, in the eyes of a living being. Robin's mouth went dry as he watched helplessly, the knife nearly forgotten about as curls soft as seafoam fell around him and onto his hands. He saw it all, the invasion, the blood, the screams - the way the silence after was so much worse.... and then.. His Other Half. Something - no, someone - had joined him on this long journey, as though they were the only two left in the world. Robin's body jolted once more as the hand tightened around his throat, fingers each turning into a vice that threatened to tear his life away at any moment. Other half... The thought of this freak somehow getting to his Danny sent him into a frenzy, his forehead slamming into his nose before he kicked the Vastayan away. He was aiming to defend himself as he watched the bird lick the blood from his upper lip, the red framing his canines in a show of dominance.

"Mmm... The Spirit resides in this one too, Tarhos. Even for a foreigner...well I suppose the great Mother has enough blessings for even the least deserving." The spear swirled along his arms before resting upon his shoulders in a hypnotizing display, "I had fun playing with you, human... but I have to go - "

"D-Don't touch him - I'll fucking kill you - "

────────────────────────────────────────────

Such a threat split a shockwave of thrill through the Vastayan as he knelt down before the mage, chittering at him as though inviting a child to play. Humans were always so funny in that way, always thinking their little lives were so important. Although the mention of "him" brought a click to Haru's tongue and a tilt of his head, he'd barely even noticed the other one now lurking in the residence. Did it really matter? If these two were chosen by the Spirit, who was he to interfere? Then again - that bitch Karma was supposedly closely tied to Ionia and look what stupidity and terror she wrought upon the land. He finally stood up, laughing slightly, "As long as neither of you are from that pack of Rats - I suppose I don't really care about what happens to either of you - "

Haruko?

The world nearly cracked into a thousand of fractured images when the voice of his mother called from the woods, a voice he had longed to hear again and yet how flatly his ears now lay against his head. The Vastayan loosened his posture in a feign of confidence, he brought himself to stand straight despite how his left ear still curled towards the forest. Haruko... Haruko... I love you. I miss you. Something screamed inside of him, a searing hellfire within his chest shrieking as though trying to rip through his own ribcage to escape from whatever was lurking within the shadows of the trees. Far beyond the childish keening of an azakana, far older...far worse. What was calling him just beyond the edge? The cough below him caught his attention once more as he tried to ignore and shove down the various whispers,

"I-I said I would kill you...g-get out."

[facemeandperish]

"People will always heal." Aatrox agreed. "Sometimes they heal wrong, or badly, and it is the duty of men and women to fix them; be it be words," he said, slowly, almost elaborately drawing the wooden blade at his hip, remaining seated, "or by this."

"Unity is not all it seems, however." Aatrox continued. "Unity can be a curse, for it was only the fracturing of your world that led your island to the many traditions and cultures that inhabit it. And with time," Aatrox shrugged "Unity would seek to blend those cultures and traditions together, to create an idea of 'Ionia' out of dispartiy, and thus many peoples would be lost." He smiled ruefully. "The same happened here, among the sands. The Ascended came, and cast our lives into the fire of progress, and it is only now, a thousand years since their fall, that we even begin to be ourselves again."

Perched on a stump, it could be seen that the fighter was sharpening a blade that clearly wasnt her own. Aside from the sound of stone grinding on metal, there was a silence in the camp, one that she had become accustomed to over the months. Outside of training sessions and other forms of tutilege, they left each other to their own devices. Idle chatter wasn't exactly expected, nor entertained most of the time, but a question had been simmering in the back of her mind. One that could make an exception to this expectation.

Her strokes slowed before she laid the sharpening stone beside her, inspecting the blade's edge for any signs of wear, and once satisfied, she returned it to its sheathe, pausing before her eyes flitted to her tutor.

'Sir...do you have a moment?' Her words were quiet, unsure how to break the silence and grimmacing when she did so.

@facemeandperish

[shurelyasreverie]

Ghsgfhf sorry idk valorant, but if you like could you do smth for yone? Maybe when he's all azakana-ified and goes to see reader? Thx :-D

No problem! Sorry for the unexpected semi-hiatus, if you wanna know why I just disappeared I can only best explain it here. Thank you so much for your patience!!

Yone x Reader: Spirit Fighter

The invasion of Noxus created the perfect breeding grounds for the azakana to prey on Ionia's fallen warriors. In your darkest time, who will save you from your own demons?

Word Count: 1373

Warning: Violence and mentions of death

In your time as a blade wielder from one of Ionia's most reputable sword schools, you had fought many demons. You learnt that they took all sorts of shapes and sizes. You fought the lowly criminals that preyed on the weak, you fought demons in the most literal sense of the word that dared step foot out of the spirit realm. You fought the demons that came as Noxians that tore your beautiful village and comrades to shreds.

But you never thought that you would fight demons of your own.

Your back slammed into a wall, the back of your head also hitting it, the pain making you both numb and delirious. Collapsing to the floor, you heard the faint clatter of your blade as it fell from your grip. Trying to haul yourself up, you were pushed down by the crushing weight of a demon, it's talons digging into your shoulders and slowly piercing your clothes and skin. You didn't have the energy to scream. You freed your head, angling up so you could see the distorted silhouette of your azakana through your blurred vision.

You feebly struggled as you lost feeling in your body. Your energy was being drained out of you, the azakana eating the very essence of your soul. You willed your body to keep moving, yet you couldn't sense if it was. You fought against the whispers of the demons as it recited your regrets and insecurities, it had your soul in your clutches, it saw everything you saw for the past weeks. It saw the bloodshed as you clashed against invading Noxians, the bloodied body of your fallen elder, the glazed eyes of your fallen comrades. But it also knew what you felt. It felt your regret of being unable to do more, the regret of being unable to protect your lover from his own demise, the yearning to see your lover again. You couldn't protect any of them and the demon amplified the pain.

You only had enough energy for one last sign of life. As you struggled to even breathe, you choked out a sob as you closed your eyes, succumbing to the darkness, only hearing the cackle of the demon.

Silence. Nothingness. Oblivion. Was this what awaited a soul that wasted away to an azakana?

A piercing screech stirred you awake, followed by a desperate cry to your name. Every muscle holding a heaviness that made you unable to even open your eyes, you could only listen and feel. Feel the warmth of your own blood staining your clothes, listen to the cries of pain from the demon. You could hear the faint slashes of a blade as it cut through the air before cutting through flesh. With every demonic scream, strength was returning to you. First, you could open your eyes, with the second you could breathe as comfortably as your injured self could. Third, you were hauling your tired body back onto your knees.

You could take a look at your saviour, a lean figure that cut down your azakana. He adorned a blood red mask that obscured his face but with his dual-wielding blades, you knew only one who could fight like that. You've sparred against it for years, a style that made your weak heart soar.

“Yone,” you croaked, the constricting feeling around your heart finally lifting. In response, the masked man snapped his head to you, nonchalantly driving his blades behind him into the demon.

The azakana collapsed to the ground. Yone hurried to your side, picking up your fallen blade and pressing it's handle into your palm. Your fingers instinctively wrapped around it.

“Only you can slay your own inner demon,” he stated, breathing quick and words hurried. You looked over his shoulder to see the azakana, it's torso noticeably rising and falling as it breathed. A bandaged arm wrapped around your back to usher you to the demon and to also support you as you staggered. Step by step, he guided you to the amalgamation of your suffering, a dark, writhing mess on the ground. His hand was over yours, holding your blade with you, offering you his strength. Despite how cold his presence felt, it was comforting as you drove your blade into the heart of the monster.

When the demon stilled, Yone guided the blade back to be sheathed by your hip before gently turning you to face him. His hands were now on your shoulders, gentle enough to not provoke your injuries but tight enough to be sure that it was indeed Yone before you.

He spoke your name quietly, bringing a hand up to wipe tears you hadn't realised had fallen. A wave of exhaustion overwhelmed you and you fell forward, collapsing onto his chest which he readily accepted, arms comfortingly around you.

“We thought you had died,” you whimpered. You felt his lips pressed against your cheek, then more kisses up to the crown of your head, his mask nudging against your temple. He felt changed, colder, holding a quiet strength a normal mortal wouldn't. But he also felt so familiar, how nurturing his hold felt, how you felt so protected despite being inches away from death a mere moment ago.

“I did,” he replied, you were surprised he even heard you. “But my duty to protect this land is not over. It will take more than death to take me away from the material world. Away from you.”

You pulled your arm up, tentatively reaching for his mask. You wanted to see his full face again, in all his glory. But his eyes widened, tilting his head down in shame when he realised what you were trying to do.

“It won't come off,” he said bitterly. “It is the work of the azakana. This realm is becoming rife with them.”

You felt his hands trace over your injured back and he grimaced. “An azakana's strength relies on pain and sadness... the invasion of Noxians makes it ideal for the demons. These days have been cruel to you.”

“Ever since you left,” you admitted. “The village is in shambles. It was so hard...”

Adrenaline was leaving your body, leaving you aching and your wounds stinging. You couldn't help but lean into him more, reassured by his heartbeat in your ear, the rough material of his bandages against your skin. His arms were tightening around you, almost lifting you up.

“We must get your wounds treated,” he stated. “Then you should return to the sword school and rest.”

“Where will you go?”

“I must slay the demons,” Yone muttered. “Every last one of them before they harm anymore innocent souls.”

A hand tilted your head up to face him as he searched your features. Through the mask you could see how solemn his expression was, almost distant. He pressed you closer to him, feeling his muscles tense. “Victims of the azakana suffer a fate worse than death. If I was any later to find you I would've-”

“But you weren't,” you reassured. “You saved me.”

“And I'll do it as many times as I must,” Yone replied. “For you and Ionia.”

“You don't honestly expect to do that all yourself. Take down all the azakana? Let me help you,” you volunteered.

“With those wounds?” Yone sounded almost angry.

“These wounds are temporary. When they're healed, I want to be by your side.”

Yone was silent, the only sounds being your footsteps. As much as it was your duty to protect Ionia, the way his lips were slightly curved down displayed his reluctance for you to take your duty so seriously.

The wind picked up and Yone straightened, his head taut like a hound detecting a threat. You wondered if your lover, changed by the demon mask, was able to sense the azakana, if he was connected to them. His gaze was distant for a moment, until you took his hand and squeezed. He dropped his head to look back at you, his face softening. “Two humans against an entire race of demons. The odds are stacked against us, but I'll willing to take them if it's with you.”

[gobboguy]

Chapter 22: A Shadow Over Gelberg

The Orcish Hall was drowned in shadow, the once-proud banners of the Gelbeg Domination hanging limply, their rich embroidery seeming tattered in the dim torchlight. The air was thick with whispers and resignation, the scent of smoke, sweat, and ink mingling as scribes scratched out last wills, final orders, and desperate pleas for mercy that would never come.

Ulf moved swiftly through the halls, her heavy boots clanking against the stone, but her presence did little to silence the sombre murmurs around her.

Near an arched window, a noble Orcish lady, clad in a voluminous gown of deep green and gold, knelt beside her two children. Her tusked lips pressed into a grim smile as she adjusted the brooch on her daughter's dress, her calloused fingers trembling ever so slightly.

"Be still, my loves," she whispered, smoothing the boy’s hair. "We will not flee. We will stand beside our queen, and we will die as Orcs."

Ulf’s stomach tightened, but she pressed on.

To her right, a noble in a blood-red cloak stood over a table, his large hands gripping a thrall’s shoulders so tightly his nails bit into flesh. The thrall quivered, eyes downcast, as the noble shoved a massive, iron-studded greatsword into his arms.

"Take this to my eldest at the gate," the noble barked. "Tell him he is the last of our line. Our blade must not fall into enemy hands while I still draw breath!"

The thrall, pale-faced, nodded and ran before the noble could change his mind and send him to the front himself.

Further down the hall, a group of orcish commanders huddled near a dying brazier, muttering in low, urgent voices.

"We cannot hold, and they know it," one grumbled, rubbing a ragged scar along his chin.

"Then what?" spat another. "Bend the knee? To Snagkill? To the humans?"

A bitter laugh. "To MOG himself, if it keeps our heads on our shoulders."

Ulf passed them without a word, her red eyes burning.

She could smell their despair, their fear. The halls of her ancestors, once ringing with laughter and war songs, now reeked of something fouler than death—hopelessness.

She clenched her fists. No.

Not yet.

The throne room of Gelberg was dimly lit, the towering braziers burning low, as though the very fire had begun to mourn. The banners of the Domination hung silent and heavy, weighed down by the air of defeat.  

At the foot of the great black throne, Queen Ionia sat, leaning forward, her head in her hands. Her golden hair, once so bright in the firelight, now seemed dull, as if sorrow had drained the color from it. Across her lap lay Juukavice, the sacred blade of the Domination, its blade cold and unstirred.  

She looked as though she had aged ten years overnight.  

Before her, Gutd, High Warchief of the Domination, stood with his arms crossed, his braided beard tucked against his chest. His voice was low and steady, the voice of a commander preparing for the inevitable.  

“They will breach the walls, my Queen. We must be ready for the siege.”  

Goreboar, Ulf’s betrothed, stood beside him, his usual mirth replaced by grim focus. His black bow rested at his side, and a fresh cut streaked across his forehead.  

“Darkfire’s troops move like carrion birds, circling us,” he reported. “They’ve sealed the roads. There’s no way out.”  

At the Queen’s right hand, Badwen Crimson-Blade gripped the hilt of her sword, her red eyes flickering between the gathered warriors. She looked as if she were searching for someone, anyone, to lift the weight from Ionia’s shoulders.  

Then—the doors burst open.  

Ulf strode forward, her boots hammering against the stone as she rushed toward the throne. She moved without hesitation, falling to one knee before her mother.  

“Mother,” she breathed, her red eyes searching Ionia’s tired face.  

Ionia slowly lifted her hand and placed it against Ulf’s head, her touch soft but heavy with regret. She let out a sigh, one that spoke of years of struggle, of battles fought and lost.  

“I have failed,” she whispered. “I led our people into this war. I thought I could carve a home for us, a true kingdom. And now—” her voice caught, and her fingers tightened against Ulf’s hair. “Now I have led them to ruin.”  

Ulf gritted her teeth and lifted her gaze.  

“If it is MOG’s will that we die here, then so be it,” she said fiercely. “But we will die as heroes. We will die as true Orcs.”  

The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling over them all.  

Then—slowly, ever so slowly, Ionia’s lips curled into something resembling a smile. The first in what felt like an age.  

She straightened her back, her grip firming on Juukavice.  

“You are your father’s daughter,” she murmured. “And mine.”  

She let out a long breath and rose fully upon the throne, her eyes now clear, unwavering.  

“So be it,” she declared, her voice stronger now. “Let Snagkill come. Let the humans come. We will meet them at the gates.”  

The fire in the braziers flickered, as if stirred by her will.

Badwen Crimson-Blade paced like a caged beast.  

Her boots struck the stone floor of the Orcish Hall, each step filled with the frustration that burned in her chest. Her hand hovered near the hilt of her sword, her knuckles white from gripping the handle too tightly. She had sworn to protect her Queen, to lay down her life before Ionia was ever harmed. She had sworn to avenge Bilesnot, her Soulmaave, who had been cut down in battle, his tusks shattered, his blood staining the ground before she could reach him.  

And now—now she was on the verge of failing both vows.  

The Hall around her was a tomb of dread.  

Near the far wall, a noble Orcess adjusted her voluminous gown, her golden bangles clinking softly. She bent to kiss the cold lips of her soulmaave, felled by the aim of an arrow that had lodged itself in his throat.

Across the chamber, a gray-haired noble snarled orders at a thrall, commanding him to see that his estate was set aflame with the enemy breached the gates. “I’ll see this city burn before you humans even get a single whit of your gold back!

All around her, Orcs prepared for death—some with grim resolve, others with barely concealed fear. Warriors sat sharpening their axes, speaking in low murmurs of battles past. Thralls moved quickly, their eyes wide, knowing that the coming battle might be their last chance to run or die free.  

Badwen snarled under her breath, her fingers twitching toward her blade.  

This could not be how it ended.  

She turned her gaze toward the throne, where Ulf knelt before her mother.  

The sight of the Princess sent a spark of something deep into Badwen’s chest—hope, defiance, purpose.  

Ulf was the blood of Gelbeg. The heir to the greatest Orcish kingdom that had ever existed. If she lived—if she took the throne—then perhaps all was not lost.  

Badwen clenched her jaw and took a deep, shuddering breath.  

I will not fail.  

If the gods demanded her blood, then she would spill it gladly—but she would see Ulf rise to power first.  

She swore it.

A thought then slithered into Badwen’s mind like a serpent.

A dangerous thought.

A brutal, traitorous thought.

It made her stomach churn, made her tusks clench so hard her jaw ached. It was not the thought of battle, of bleeding, of dying. No, it was something far worse.

Subterfuge.

Deception.

The way of humans.

Badwen shuddered, her skin crawling at the mere comparison. Orcs fought with steel and strength, not with lies. But the truth was carved into the bones of this hall—they had lost.

Snagkill had won.

Unless…

Badwen’s red eyes flicked to Ionia, still seated upon her throne, and then to Ulf, who knelt before her. The blood of Gelbeg, the last hope of their people. She could not allow them to die here.

Not like this.

Not to their own kind.

Badwen’s grip tightened on the hilt of her sword, her fingers twitching. There was one way. One way to end this rebellion before it devoured the Domination whole.

But it would require the skills of an Orc without honor.

An Orc like…

Badwen grimaced.

She knew what she must do.

Her lips curled in disgust, but her feet were already moving. She stormed toward the doors of the hall, pushing past murmuring nobles and sharpening blades.

There was one Orc who could help her.

A killer, a liar, a survivor.

A traitor to all things Orcish.

Hate.

Badwen moved like a shadow down the narrow stone steps, her bootfalls echoing in the damp corridor. The torches lining the walls flickered, their weak flames barely holding back the oppressive darkness of the dungeons beneath the Orcish Hall.  

She could smell fear.  

The thralls—human, dwarves, even a few broken Dakfire Orcs—pressed themselves against the bars of their cells as she passed. Hollow eyes peered at her from the gloom, hands gripping iron bars with a desperate, silent plea.  

Badwen sneered. Pathetic. These wretches had once been warriors, now they were little more than rats in cages. She turned her gaze to a gaunt human, his ribs like the bars he clutched.  

"You’ll die down here, slave," she spat. "Best pray to whatever gods you have left that it’s quick."  

The man did not reply. He only stared, his lips curling into a hateful grin.  

Badwen curled her own in disgust and strode past. She had no time for the dregs of war.  

She reached the final cell at the end of the hall. The guard there stiffened, hand on his axe.  

"Leave us," she ordered.  

The guard hesitated. “But High Warchief Gutd said—”  

Badwen turned her head slowly, her red eyes flashing. "I don’t give a thrall’s piss what Gutd said. Get out."  

The guard swallowed, then bowed stiffly and retreated up the stairs.  

Badwen turned back to the cell.  

Inside, Hate sat against the far wall, his back resting on the damp stone. His long black hair, once neatly braided, hung in wild, tangled strands over his face. His normally massive, rotund frame had withered, his powerful bulk reduced to a husk.  

But his eyes—those treacherous, cunning eyes—still burned with life.  

"Look what the rats dragged in," he rasped, his lips cracking as he smiled.  

Badwen crossed her arms. "You look like filth."  

Hate laughed, though it was hoarse and dry. "And you still smell like a boar’s ass. We’ve both seen better days."  

Badwen gritted her teeth, stepping closer. "I should kill you where you sit, traitor."  

Hate smirked. "Then why haven’t you?"  

Badwen's fingers twitched on her sword hilt, but she did not draw. Instead, she took a slow breath through her nose.  

"You claim to serve the Princess," she said at last.  

Hate straightened, his weary smile fading. He placed a fist over his heart.  

"In life and death," he said, voice steady. "My love for her demands nothing less than my dedication and life's blood."  

Badwen growled. She wanted to hate him, to spit on him, to break his teeth. But she could not deny the truth in his words.  

"Then perhaps," she said slowly, "there is something you can do. But it will cost you any and all of your honor."  

Hate chuckled. "Honor?" He leaned forward, grinning, his teeth sharp and yellowed in the torchlight. "I lost that long ago. What more can I lose?"  

Badwen stepped forward.  

She unlocked the cell.  

The door groaned open.  

Hate stood, towering over her, though his body was weak and trembling.  

Badwen looked up into those sharp, hungry eyes and let out a slow breath.  

"Then perhaps we can make a deal…"

[blood-starved-beast]

Since idk when League is gonna give us Irelia lore I might as well make headcanons.

Irelia doesn’t have much money as an adult. Despite coming from a relatively well-off family (her blades were originally her family crest, which if they have a crest they had prestige, which means they had money) all their wealth (which i imagine wasn’t that much to begin with, at least no where near the level of the Kirammans and their economic empire all things considered) was lost when Noxus pillaged the Xan house. Resistance fighting doesn’t exactly pay the bills, and with no centralized government backing them, Irelia rarely gets a regular income and has to either rely on foraging for food and charity for the other resources. I’d figure she’d also use any money to help people or her troops (or what would constitute them).

Because she was orphaned at a young age, Irelia has a host of weird habits that perhaps her family if they were alive would either be concerned or alarmed by. Many of them are defense mechanisms (like sleeping with weapons, going nights without sleep or waking at the slightest provocation, never sharing her food [something I feel would be a social faux pas in Ionia], etc.). Even her habit of knife collecting started like this but eventually became a hobby of hers. I imagine she keeps them stabbed on some board of wood or wall somewhere.

As a child her dream was to be the leading actor of a dance theater troupe but of course that never became realized. After the first Invasion there have been moments where people suggest to her that she should join or with offers, but she rejected them for a variety of reasons (being too depressed, Ionia needs her fighting spirit more, prefers to dance alone now). She rarely thinks about those dreams so much as she does her dead family but sometimes she thinks about it and it haunts her.

This is really weird but I imagine she still has Swain’s human arm that she chopped off somewhere. Either stuffed in some magic freezer or mummified to some extent in a hidden crypt. She can’t exactly explain why she still has it and it disgusts her immensely, but she couldn’t (and can’t) seem to force herself get rid of it. It shames her greatly and it’s a secret that practically no one (not even, especially not Liana) knows other than her. Karma might suspect cause of Spirit of Ionia magic or something, but never really bothered to ask as it wasn’t relevant. 

Would update more later I’m tired

[shimmerbeasts]

He had failed again.

That had been the only thought pounding in Yasuo's head ever since he had left this village, through which he had just been passing through. He had failed again; and now a mother had not lost one, not two, but three children. Even though Yasuo had done his hardest to locate Vesani and drive her out of town, the fox spirit had once more proved that she would always be too clever for him. And now three children had paid the price for him not being fast enough.

He was not even in Ionia anymore, having followed Vesani's trail to the isolated villages of Demacia, among which spanned forests, which felt as unfamiliar as the stars above his head. The wind, though, still felt the same. It would always feel the same to him. Even if the air was colder or warmer and carried new smells with itself, the feeling of wind rustling his long, thick, messy ponytail would always be like welcoming an old friend for the ronin.

Even if his dishonour and name were not known to the Demacians, for Yasuo, his crimes overshadowed every step he took and every good deed he attempted. Vesani remained always just out of reach; and yet whenever she came close enough of her own volition, the ronin always drew the short straw. His black hair was already streaked with grey strands. Just how many years had this pursuit cost him already?

Yasuo staggered on, down a long-winding and lonely road. The sun was setting behind him. His steps were heavy and lethargic. Yasuo clutched his bottle of whatever alcoholic shit was drinkable in one hand. He was so inebriated that he could not even taste what he had just taken another swig from. His vision was blurry. The ronin was feeling ill, physically and mentally. How he was even capable of keeping his stomach down, was anybody's guess.

Eventually, even his legs refused him their service and Yasuo collapsed by the side of the road. His body rolled into a ditch and his eyes flattered shut. The ronin had completely passed out to the point that he could not even feel the dirty soil beneath him, nor the touch of a hand if someone were to pick him up. In this incredibly vulnerable position, it would have been far too easy for anybody to rob or even kill him. But the strong smell of alcohol, his dirty and dishevelled appearance and just his location deterred a lot of people from even approaching him.

And even if the alcohol had incapacitated his body, his mind was a different story entirely. In Yasuo's mind, he could hear the clashing of katana blades, meeting in the middle, and feel the wind in his hair. He could smell blood and feel the stings of countless cuts on his body. But worst of all, Yasuo replayed his argument with Yone over and over in his mind. His thoughts just couldn't settle down. It was something, his master had claimed had always been a problem of his: "You have a wild mind and a temper to match it. You must learn to tame the storm in your head, Yasuo. You must learn to rule your anger and not let your anger rule you."

"You cannot keep running forever, Yasuo. You have to answer for what you have done."

"Yone, I didn't do this. It was Vesani's work. You have to believe me."

"What? A malevolent fox spirit killed the master, you had sworn to protect. You dishonoured yourself by murdering him, and now you further dishonour yourself by daring to lie to me!"

"I am not a murderer and I - AM - NOT - A - LIAR!"

The katana stained with Yone's blood...

Yasuo gasped for breath as he darted up, holding out his weapon as if in a fighting stance. His heart hammered in his chest. Tame your mind, Yasuo. You were dreaming. Peace of mind. He slowly drew up his weapon and took a deep breath, forcing his racing heart to calm down. Closing his eyes so he could focus on his breathing, Yasuo waited for a couple of seconds, just existing in his body before he sheeted the katana away.

It was then that Yasuo became aware that he was no longer in the ditch at all. Instead, he had darted up in what seemed to be a bed in a corner. A soft, maroon blanket had gotten tangled up in his legs. Yasuo turned his head inches as he gazed around. Beside the bed stood a heavy bookshelf, in which piled books from all over Runeterra. Rain pitter-pattered against the glass. On the other side of the room stood a dresser, upon which someone had placed the skull of a house cat, bellied bottles, small tin boxes and vials. The air was heavy with the scent of dried herbs, whose leaves rustled above Yasuo's head from the ceiling.

The smell of warm food would have been appetising were Yasuo not so preoccupied with the pounding of his head. By the Ancients, it felt like he had been kicked in the skull by a horse. Groaning, the ronin nurtured his temple in his hands and shut his eyes. His legs trembled and Yasuo wondered if he would even be able to stand. He felt terrible. Absolutely terrible. At least the physical sensations kept his guilt at bay if he did not bother thinking too hard. Something, his hangover currently beautifully prevented.

His gaze fell upon a woman in a beautiful, dark purple dress, wearing a pair of bandage-like shoes wrapped around her feet, leaving her toes and heels bare. Her hair was black, but it seemed to carry a purple shine to her. Her eyes were icy blue. Four pairs of dark purple, beautifully feathered wings, bound by heavy, dark gleaming chains adorned her back and shoulders.

"I presume, you are the person who dragged me out of the ditch", Yasuo spoke and lowered his head in respect, "Thank you. I promise I will just freshen up and as soon as I can think properly again, I will not trouble you any further."

　◈　 ⇢  @shimmerbeasts　 ⋯　 random starter .

　⊰ ⸻ ⊱　The slow clop of hooves was the only sound that accompanied Morgana currently. "Easy now, Scarlet, I think the next village we need to get your shoes replaced," The woman spoke, as she lightly tossed the reins. It had been months since she had left Demacia, months since she had heard the shouts in her ears praising the great light of justice. Those echoing prayers to her sister taunted her ears constantly reminding her what she had lost. Her eyes cast downward, keeping the prayers shut off. As much as she could hear the prayers to herself (which was something she never appreciated) she could also hear those to her sister. They overwhelmed her thoughts, and they only troubled her as she could not do much. Demacia had turned them into these god-like creatures despite not being them. She was no more a god than Kayle, despite what her sister might think. Even their mother, Mihira, was no god! Being made an avatar took away the most important thing that made the world worth living; losing her humanity did not seem worth the power the powers offered.

The sky slowly darkened over the horizon, with a little crack of lightning. She knew she would have to find a place to settle, hopefully, the next village had a barn where she could set her red roan horse in for some rest and reshoeing. Morgana pulled the hood over her head, keeping her appearance secluded from view. Her wings were pressed firmly to her back as she leaned up against her knees. The slight drizzle of the rain only brought a smile to her lips. She put out her hand, the chill dropped against her fingers as she brushed her fingers together.

Rain never bothered the sorceress she reveled in these delights. Something as simple as rain or the sun warming her skin; the little things that make life enjoyable. It reminded her of her father's lessons, to always appreciate what life could give for the day because in a blink it could be gone the next. Life was fleeting and it was one of the curses of her immortality. Still, she remembered the lessons and it reminded her what life had. For even a second, all of it could be taken away.

Something nipped at her skin, a taste of pain as she tugged the reins and frowned. After grabbing a lantern, she slides out of the seat with her bare feet touching the ground. To anyone, she just looked like a common traveler, a black hood covering her dark purple hair and icy blue eyes piercing into the distance. Fingers lifted the dark dress she wore, letting her feet press into damp grass as she followed the taste of pain like a blood trail. She lifted the lantern and first spotted the dark black hair, soaked from the rain and what looked like graying strays of age. The anguish spread over him like a blanket and the scent of alcohol made her nose scrunch up slightly. "Looks like you've had one too many," Morgana spoke, as she walked around the body and crouched down.

Her hand brushed out, clawed nails brushing against his face to lift it and ensure he still had breath in his lungs. A single rise of his chest told her he lived but he looked like the end of a failed rope. "Alright, friend, let's get you out of this ditch," Morgana spoke, doubtful he was even coherent enough to hear her. She hooked the lantern to her hip and then reached around to pull his arm over her shoulder. A few heaves and she had him to his feet, though perhaps it was better to say his feet dragged as she walked to her caravan home. One hand grabbed his arm, keeping it around her neck and her other hand wrapped around his waist to pull him to the small home. On the outside, it looked small but she waved her hand, and the flash of purple magic pulled the door open and she climbed inside.

It looked far larger on the inside than the outside, as she pulled him up the steps inside. She moved over toward a bed, the red duvet laid with a pillow at the head. She picked up Yasuo and set him down upon the material and then placed the lantern next to his bed. A set of red curtains were tied apart with the window to the front of the carriage. Rain pitter-pattered against the glass as Morgana turned to the left. On the walls was a bookcase, filled with books and a dresser covered with different objects: The skull of a feline, bottles, and potions that made her look like a witch ready to seduce some fair maidan with hopes of love. Herbs of birch and Cedarwood hung from the ceiling, with some scattered chamomile on the dresser.

In the center was a dark black cauldron, a medium size with boiling soup; the smell of stew and rich broth filled the cabin. She grabbed the wooden bowls and cups and set them down on a cherry wood table, a dark black cloth laid across it and a couple of chairs around it. With a wave of her hand, the bowls flew through the air and landed on the table, as she stirred the food. She didn't know when the man would wake, but she knew he would need some herbal water to take care of the ailments of his drunkenness and some good food to fill his belly. She glanced down at her hand, seeing the weave of dark purple and black tendrils running around her fingers and up her arm. Yasuo's pain and guilt tugged to her magic as she lifted her hand and saw it nearly engulfing her lower arm. "You're filled with more pain than you can handle, poor man, what happened to you?" Morgana questioned.

She could easily dig into his mind, pull out his memories but she would not be so evasive. Instead, she turned back toward a spare table on the wall, as she started to work on some herbal remedies for the man in the bed, waiting for him to wake.

[electronicdelusionstarlight]

Thinking about it, I don't think you can really do Arcane Season 2 in Noxus.

Like, I mean, you could do it, but you'd need to change the formula. Arcane is about focusing on Vi and Jinx relationship specifically, everything else is window dressing in the end. They are the Focus Characters in this ensemble cast.

Who the hell is the focus character for a Noxus show? Who are we following? Like, it can work, you can do Draven and Darius as kids, Darius integration in the Army, Draven becoming a professional wrestler, the march up north, then as more people are integrated in the story it broadens the scope, with Draven allying with Swain at his lowest, Le Blanc, Boram Darkwill, The usual Noxian Politics and shit, you do Game of Thrones but they end in a communist egalitarian LGBT-Friendly dictatorship.

Except... That can't really work now, can't it? That's only half the story, it'd be telling only half the truth, it'd be like Arcane, but only showing the scenes in Pilltover.

If you want to do a Noxus show, one about the origin of the characters just like Arcane is...

You need to do a Ionia show.

You need to do a show focused on Irelia, a simple blade dancer practicing her art for the people with her order, with her girlfriend, with her mentor, and the dark, metal monstrosities that came from the mainland, ships filled with monsters and soldiers and weapons to take their land, poison it, destroy their heritage, culture, bury them beneath the rubble, all under the command of one man safely away in his Immortal Bastion.

You need to show the horrors of war, the toll it has taken on people, the villages slaughtered, the land poisoned, and the general doing all of this, so that it's all the more cathartic when Irelia finally snaps, and uses her art, the dance that was supposed to bring joy, to set free the arm of the man she blames for all of this, the Grand General Jericho Swain, as she starts her Rebellion against the Noxian Invaders...

And then you start Act 2 and it's about this broken man who has been following orders all his life for an empire who discarded him the second he lost his arm, the professional wrestler who came to his aid in his time of need, and the Raven Demon he made a pact with.

You still switch between Ionia and Noxus, the characters, their struggles, are tied now, and it ends with the Trifariax Coup, with Darius returning from the north as the expansionism temporarily ends, as Noxus stops expanding onto Ionia, but not after scarfing her beyond repair, not after setting colonies in the southern islands...

The contrast is needed. You need to show the horrors of Noxus if you want to show Noxus, if you want to show the Egalitarian LGBT-Friendly Meritocratic Triumvirate Noxus becomes in the end, while still being brutal, while still deploying monsters and soldiers and horrors to take people's land from them, to either bury them in it, or have them live under them, while still being a better alternative to other kingdoms with their divine right of kings and all.

Otherwise it doesn't work.

[eve6262]

gwen is lost

Everyone has somewhere to go.

Senna and Lucian hunt Thresh, Vayne joining them. Olaf returns to the Freljord, Pyke to his waters and Graves to the port, Rengar to his jungle- Riven and Irelia both to Ionia, surprisingly. Akshan prefers the desert air, and thus starts trying to repair the sentinel bases starting with Shurima, but Gwen?

Gwen has nowhere to go. Nowhere she was, really, aside from looking around fruitlessly in the black mist for Viego. Now that he’s gone, she has nothing left but a bit of joy and the faint memory of, in a last moment, seeing Isolde once more as a spirit. She could help them with the hunt for Thresh, but she fears she would only be another soul for him to capture.

She has no way to fight a man that powerful. Senna, Lucian, Vayne, they’re all experienced hunters. But Gwen only knows how to fight very vaguely, and snips and slashes are her forte, not tracking and traps and the like. On this very journey it’s been proven, from the mistakes she’s made and the assumptions that have been so very wrong.

The memory of fear still strikes deep into her heart.

She decides, eventually, to simply see the world for herself. Pick a spot, and start there, and simply go places, experience the world however she pleases. Eventually, she’ll find somewhere that needs a seamstress of her exceptional talent, and then she’ll finally have a home.

She hopes.

Piltover is the place she starts in, because their shops are simply wonderful and that parasol looked absolutely gorgeous when she wasn’t concentrated on its status as a fetter. Upon arrival she sees some remnants of the mist, surely, but largely the streets are still there. Aristocrats look worriedly around as they take the corner, scared another drop of mist is going to take over the city again. Their children are less frightened, until one of them spots the darling doll with giant scissors and rushes behind their mother.

“What is it- oh my! You’re- you have it!”

“Have what, Miss?”

“The- the mist! The Black Mist!”

“Oh, not at all! This is the Hallowed Mist- very different, I assure you.”

Nonetheless the woman looks like she’s about to faint, and there’s a large commotion from the people around her. A hextech-colored voice cuts through the panic.

“What is this, now?”

The crowd immediately quiets, and silently parts for a woman with grey hair and a loose blouse that does nothing to conceal the metal body she’s got below the neck, complete with two blades for legs. They remind distinctly of scissors when she walks, back and forth like they could cut so easily through fabric.

“What sharp blades! You must tell me how you don’t end up cutting everything you wear.”

“I don’t wear anything that they could cut.” Her eyes narrow. “Who are you?”

“I am Gwen.”

“Last name?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Don’t tell me, then. I’ll find out.”

“If you do find one, please tell me! I’m terribly curious.”

“What are you?”

“A doll! Or a seamstress. Which one were you asking about?”

“Not human?”

“I don’t believe so, no. Unless I was turned into a human by the Hallowed Mist.”

“Hmph.” The woman tosses a lock of hair out of her face. “Come with me.”

So she does, follows the lady down the alleys and streets of Piltover. At the mere sight of her people rush to get out of her way, clearly wanting nothing to do with the woman, but Gwen is only concocting ways to make a blouse with no bottoms look fashionable. Maybe something simple, like a piece with sleeves to her elbows and a flowy bottom so it doesn’t look like it should be tucked in somewhere or ends in a strange silhouette.

Finally, they get to a towering mansion, and the lady throws up some kind of gesture Gwen doesn’t recognize. Suddenly, there’s wires shooting out from her hips, and she attaches to a wall and quickly starts to scale it.

“I suppose she wants me to follow?” She mounts her scissors and quickly follows, though she’s proven wrong when, after entering through a window, the woman turns around and is shocked by the development.

“You can fly?”

“In a way. My scissors can, and I can ride them.

“...Alright, then. Come in. I’ll make you some tea.”

“Ooh, who was that woman who Akshan said liked tea? Shadya, was it?”

The woman looks at her strangely, but continues in. “Sit,” she asks, motioning to a small table with two chairs, and so she does.

While presumably boiling water, the woman looks over to her guest appraisingly. Gwen does her best to look pretty, though she thinks her clothes already to that for her; Isolde’s final gift, she thinks. Joy, skill with a needle and thread, and a beautiful outfit to fit. Finally, she speaks.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Piltover.”

“More specifically.”

“Your home?”

“Who am I?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“...Camille.”

“Well then, very nice to meet you, Miss Camille!”

The teapot whistles, and so the woman goes to pour it out. She balances so perfectly on the blades that make up her legs that Gwen can’t help but imagine her doing ballet, carefully slicing her way through the stage in a gorgeous dress made of material that’s suspended by magic. Oh, it would be such a sight.

Thankfully, though she can’t eat proper things, she can drink tea. It tastes like regal refinement and a little like memories- perhaps her maker liked this flavor.

After a few sips, Camille speaks again. “Well, then. You must have a story to tell.”

“I do, if you’d like to hear it!”

“Absolutely.”

And so for maybe the next hour or so Gwen recounts her journey with the sentinels, starting from when she found Lucian and Senna all the way to Veigo’s imprisonment in her impeccable sewing and with plenty of boasting about her own skills in making outfits for each and every sentinel. Even Pyke, the slippery thing, who seemed all to happy to put on the clothes when she showed them off to him, citing something about water making the threads in his clothes all thick.

She almost thinks she won’t be able to tell her about Isolde, but she manages without her voice cracking and only a few pauses. Finally, she leaves out Thresh for the most part, only explaining that the Black Mist still exists because he does.

When she stops, and looks quizzically at the woman, there’s a certain pensive look on her face. “I see,” says Camille, considering what to follow that with.

“If I may, you seem like you have quite the story as well, what with those legs! Would you tell it to me?”

She almost says something, but hesitates. Closes her mouth, then opens it again. “Alright.”

And she begins.

----

literally in the middle of writing "she's in piltover and a woman goes OH MY GOD" I go "what if camille and gwen" so here's the bit

~Eve6262