#Chara; Champion Spotlight (LoL)

[crimsondiplomacy]

@lumenisse liked for a starter!~

Motes of disdain lingered beneath his cowl, framing a pale visage. He’d thought Runeterra had been rife with frailty, and yet Talon found himself set upon by sights that he truly abhorred. Soft hands and unburdened eyes alike. Those who knew nothing of strength, true struggle was found profoundly lacking.

Even still, he begrudgingly sauntered through the streets. Shoulder length locks of dark brown, no longer loosely covered by his avian hood. He’d been given all he needed, everything except for the vast majority of his arms anyways. Hatred still burned in his gut, a pit of coals banked for the sake of his beloved bladed gauntlet.  Roughly, he pulled a glove of heavy leather, effectively freeing his marred hand from the protective piece of treated hide. Bringing a roughened palm to his brow, he gently rubbed at the slightly heated flesh of his forehead. “Stupid!” Talon cursed, chiding himself much in the same way his mentor would’ve. 

Wandering to the beachfront, he splayed himself in the sand, eyes following the patterns of birds circling overhead, allowing a brief moment of respite as plans ruminated within his calculating mind. Idly, his fingers dug into the swath of sand spilling far to both his left and right. “I’d even take Shurima over this place..” He lamented bitterly under his breath.

[crimsondiplomacy]

@beasticide

Disoriented incarnate, Talon stalked through the streets in a relative daze. Shock, no where to be seen upon his aloof visage, was still ever present within the twisting of his gut. It’d all been so simple, where had he gone wrong? Kill the Demacian official, then get back to the pressing matter of finding his adopted father. Only problem was, one moment he was on the road, the next? His attention peeled through the semi-busy street he’d found himself upon. It was all so.. alien. Buildings loomed about, carved from concrete, built by those who’d mastered this strange reality. The belated sigh that stung his lips was enough to rouse his acute senses back into action. Someone had to know more, why he’d been spirited away when his family so desperately needed him.

The Noxian’s cold gaze scoured the sea of faces, eventually spotting a pair of horns caught betwixt locks of crimson. Surely not. His gaze narrowed harshly, mind already working on possibilities he hadn’t even given the time of day.  Even still, he had to be sure. Step one of completing a mission was to prepare for the journey at hand. Though he wasn’t one to skip through this valuable operating standard, he decided to move onto the information gathering phase. Talon casually ambled his way towards this strange creature, eyes blank, yielding not even a hint of emotion or intelligence. “You.” His voice rang out, a harsh lilt to it. “What is this place? Who leads your kind, demon?” The well muscled man stood before the red-clad man, eyes focused in an inquisitive manner. His azure cowl was still present upon his frame, armored leathers interwoven with his infamous garb.  Whether this world was a construct of the void, a ring of hell, or perhaps a world rune ripping Runeterra asunder, he would soon find out.

[crimsondiplomacy]

@godssent 

     It hadn’t taken long before Talon had merely been stalking his way through the streets with the soul purpose of listening to others. Conversations he’d no rights to, beyond his ability to glean what he needed of course. It wasn’t long before the assassin decided to take a break.      It hadn’t quite dawned upon him that he was devoid of purpose when it came to free-time. If he’d invested anymore time sharpening his throwing knives, they would be spread far too thin to be of any use. No, he’d have to pick up another hobby. But what? He flinched at the idea of anything remotely domestic. 

     His avian hood kept his visage relatively hidden, the features of a man in his twenties only gleaned by his resistance to time’s touch. The Noxian fished around in a belt pouch, producing rations from a land he could no longer return to. Dried meats, stale bread, and a mess kit packed tight enough to avoid any rustling.         Soundlessly, he seated himself upon a park bench, the sun’s waning influence bathed the swath of trees and ponds in shades of orange and purple. Most would marvel at the sight, and here the murderous youth was-- uncaring feeding flecks of stale bread to a collection of birds. Though heedless of this boundless beauty, he acknowledged it with a flick of his gaze-- a harshness unfazed in the face of this radiance. 

[crimsondiplomacy]

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