#curtaincalling

[elegant-equilibrium]

In the mail, Shen receives a gift wrapped in pale pink tissue paper; upon unwrapping, there is a delicate porcelain plate. Each blue and yellow stroke is lovingly painted upon the creamy white surface, looking like tadpoles swimming in the creek. Enclosed, a note: You may not remember, but we broke a dish that night. Here's to replacing what's been lost. Happy birthday.

Shen isn't one for big celebrations. Every year, his father will take him out to dinner, invite a couple close business partners who he's eager to impress, and buy Shen something nice. Something practical. A tie, a crisp new shirt, a watch. Something to make them both look friendly and business oriented.

It means nothing to Shen. It's just another tool for Kusho to leverage to get what he wants, offer the picture of the perfect businessman, the perfect father. Shen endures it year after year.

Some years, he'll get something in the mail that he knows to be from Usan, even when there's no name and no return address. Perhaps that's why he opens this box as soon as he finds it, pulling the wrapping back carefully as if to preserve what little clues Usan has left about his identity and the man he's become in their years apart. Inside it is a dish, and Shen is no stranger to getting those from Usan—he seemed to be the only one who took notice of Shen's fondness for them—but something about it is off. The handwriting is off, and the package is too lovingly packed.

He reads the note, and it doesn't make sense at first. Then, the memory sinks its teeth into him.

A scream. Blood and ceramics on the tiles. Jhin's eyes, watching and waiting. Shen, too short to reach the phone.

Something shatters, and it takes Shen a moment to realise it's the dish, slipped from his fingers, spread across the floor like a spray of blood.

It can't be. But it can be no one else. Terror rips him open as he stares at the shards, then at the tissue paper, then at his hand holding him steady against the counter. Jhin. No.

... It takes him a long time before he can sweep the shards up, and he finds himself looking over his shoulder when he takes them out to the garbage.

[cautelous]

“ the question isn’t ‘who am i ?’ the question is where am i ? ”

Scream starters.

That's a very good question indeed, considering the circumstances. Julian’s calmer than any art teacher has a right to be - they glance about the empty theatre, hands already working at the ropes that bind them. Carefully, as to not give it away.

It doesn’t look great for them. The Golden Demon’s in town, according to rumors, and they have the awful feeling that they’re getting a private performance...

They are terrified, of course. Gods. Who wouldn’t be? But fear’s not going to get them out of this, now is it? So they fix the masked man with a stare.

“Lowell Theatre,” they say flatly. “It closed down due to lack of funds about a year ago. You didn’t happen to buy the place, did you?”

[ladybuvelle]

The corpse falls from the theatre rafters, unleashing a rain of rose petals, and then snagging on the noose. In the Golden Demon's opinion, it is the most exciting thing to happen in a Buvelle performance.

It happens so suddenly and so fast that Sona only realized something was wrong when the delayed screams made her open her eyes. She had even still been playing seconds longer after the audience had collectively stumbled over one another to get away. What happened?! Why was everyone running?!

Petals landing on her hands then caught her attention. She looked up... that wasn’t part of the show?

A rope was hanging from above... and a cold, prickly feeling ran down her neck as Sona’s eyes followed it to its other end. Behind her. A body. Swinging yet still, its neck now broken. Staring. Empty.

And just like that the maven fell back on her instrument and onto the stage floor, pale as a ghost and passed out.

[phrenoempath]

:)

...At least it’s in 4/4? That’s a nice time signature. Very standard, actually!

What happened to this man?

[triplescope]

Jhin's been looking out the window for most of the night, his thoughts somewhere beyond the room, beyond him. His attention is only moved when Caitlyn enters the room, and in the same moment, Jhin speaks. "Let's go out for a walk," he says. "I'd like to see the Snowdown lights. Take in the festivities."

She crooks a smile and cocks her head. Of course Jhin would like to go out. Piltover is beautiful this time of year, all snow and warm strings of lights - and he loves beauty above all else.

It’s a shame that his idea of beauty often incorporates so much violence.

“It’s nearly midnight. You won’t see many revelers at this hour,” Caitlyn replies. It’s for the better. “But we can go, yes.”

The view from her apartment, her home-away-from-house, is nothing spectacular. There are lights hung in the street below, yes, and a few balconies across the way glow with white and gold - but on the whole, it’s rather subdued. Caitlyn prefers it that way.

“Don’t forget your coat. You wouldn’t want to catch cold.”

[perfect-fourth]

A plate of dumplings for a Mr. Khada Jhin, from a Mr. Khada Jhin. Happy Snowdown, beautiful.

“My favorite.  How did you know?”

[rclict]

i just think jhin would think spider lady is neat

/ HE RESPECTS THE BUG…… get over here jhin. 

[heartate-aa]

@curtaincalling​  sent  :  His lair seems more like a cabinet of curiosities, with all the strange handcrafted objects and lonely parts. The phantom, masked and yet smiling all the same, sits amongst the clutter and works on his newest piece. It is a music box, and it is for her. It should be perfect for her. He does not look up at her, but his demeanor seems to glow in her presence. "Today is a special day, isn't it? Are you not celebrating with the others?" he asks. "I'm sure they miss their star."

               𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭,  𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞 of her ribs.  it flutters quietly,  a gentle thrum between her lungs,  the same as the rapid flutter of a little hummingbird’s tireless wings,  the butterflies that float endlessly and aimlessly in the pit of her stomach.  a glorious and special day,  indeed.  at least,  that is what it is meant to be.  and yet,  for once,  ahri finds a restless yearning in her heart that wills her away in search of silence,  in search of company that isn’t the endless and suffocating sea of warmth and badgering questions and faux smiles that are as much of an air of theatrics as the songs she sings.

she finds him.  she finds him,  and she feels a stillness in her heart.  it gradually slows and comes to a calm rest.  its pounding is no longer a deafening roar of galloping thunder.  finally,  ahri feels as if she can breathe.  the air isn’t as thick and binding as it is in the theatre,  nestled in the heart of its clustering crowds that clamor around her,  to dote her,  to coo at her,  to sing their praises and shower her in a deluge of gold and fanciful glory.  she lives for the theatre.  singing and being the star of its show,  its reigning prima donna,  brings her no greater joy,  but on some days,  it is all too much.

almost nothing is of genuine heart,  ahri has long since learned this lesson.  people expect all too much of her.  her attention,  her affections,  they wish to keep her all to themselves,  locked in a cell hidden beneath the surface beyond the gaze of curiously wandering eyes.  little songbird,  little doll,  won’t you sing for us  ?  she has never been one to cave to whimsical demands and ultimatums.  ahri is strong,  firm in her own convictions,  fiercely passionate in all that she believes in,  and dedicated in everything she finds is worth chasing after.

a smile curls a single corner of her mouth.  it lifts,  diminutive and crooked,  lighting a twinkle in golden eyes.  she hums.  it is a soft sound,  buried deep within her chest,  that begins to resonate and echo into his lair the louder she gets.  simply an absent  -  minded tune,  but it is no less beautiful than the songs that rest in her throat.

“    sometimes,  it’s just a little too much.  not that i hate the attention or anything,  you know . . . mm.  it’s just that,  well . . . i get it.  i’m the star,  the prima donna.  everyone’s morning glory.  but it gets so tiring,  having to smile all night at people who,  half the time,  don’t truly mean well.  most of the time,  i’m so happy to be out there,  around everyone.  it’s nice.  but sometimes . . . it’s just so tiring to keep pretending.  i’m not interested in small talk with businessmen and powerful tycoons.  i just want to sing.    ”    ahri pauses at long last.  she tilts her chin up,  inky lashes fluttering as she peers up at the ceiling before averting her gaze to him instead.  a warmer smile crests her lips and she sighs.    “    you’re much better company,  anyway.  so,  what are you working on  ?    ”

[yi-dashi]

"Oh, look at you..." Jhin's tone is condescending and amused, as he shakes his head at the old master. "Tsk tsk. Clinging to tradition like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. The Art of Wuju deserves a dignified death, does it not? Not this... decrepit vestige."

Yi looked to the other, lips slightly agape. It took him some time to form any sort of comment, his goggle whirring throughout his silence. Should he retort against the blatant disrespect, the veiled threat, or the general visage that affronted him?

“I would wonder why it is an issue of yours, stranger?” Yi chose to say in time, his tone almost too even against stewing disgust, “I have asked for no opinions, only the seclusion to do what I feel I must. If a reputation precedes me, then I am not sure what you have heard. If you have nothing of substance to offer me in your words however, then I suggest you move on from this place. Otherwise, speak your mind plainly...”

[virtuosin]

"Why do you perform?" Jhin leans against the vanity of her dressing room, masked in his showman's attire. The gun twirls in his hand, as casually as a paintbrush. "For the love of a show? For a virtuous world? I've listened to your performance, and I'm afraid I'm not impressed."

Ah, a critic with a gun. There is alarm in her heart, as any prey caught in the predator’s trap would have, but the maven remains calm as he monologues. Better to keep poise and not have the situation escalate. Under most circumstances, Sona would have dispatched the threat with her beloved etwahl--as she has many times with Mageseekers--but something gave her pause. For what reason might this man be possessed into conversation while proudly flaunting a weapon? There was a message she needed to interpret here, but given how little information she had on the masked figure, it would take time to draw those conclusions. “Why does any artist create?” A question posed back to the man who so informally uses her private area as his domain. Boldly, she would pace in the center of the room, as if she were exchanging pleasantries with a relative. There was fear in her heart, but she vowed to control it. Only then might it save her life, if the time comes to it. “We create in order to spark change...to elevate the minds of those around us so that they may experience what they ordinarily cannot.” Hands would delicately gesture to and fro, languid as trembling branches in a delicate breeze. Cerulean gaze remains pointed on that ivory visage, creating a connection between them. Would the telepathy deter him? She found it tedious to conceal her magic at this point, given the situation at hand. Signing for the sake of deceit hardly suited her needs right now. The etwahl had been nestled not far from the ominous stranger, resting idly on its stand. Though, idly had been the wrong word--it was being restrained by the maven’s force of will. The moment required delicacy, and if her beloved instrument was at liberty to do as it wished then a fight would surely erupt. For the sake of...whatever civility was taking place, Sona would ensure her etwahl remained silent still. For now. “Tell me,” She calls out suddenly, coming to an abrupt halt in the center of the room, hands lacing together before her. The mark of a noble with such graceful mannerisms as those. Inclining her chin, she continues regarding the man. “You say you are not impressed...what was your take on my performance, exactly? Surely it’s not a tedious task for you to recount your displeasure if you’re here. Was it too mundane, or perhaps redundant in its repetitious melody? Or-” A pause, one that allows those cerulean orbs to focus in on that ivory. “I wonder if it’s too compelling in emotion for you to grasp quite yet. My orchestrations have that effect on certain individuals. I capitalize on matters of the heart in my compositions...it’s possible that you are not the target audience.”

[cautelous]

chinhands in front of him. "always love meeting a fellow manwhore malewife—"

“birds of a feather...”

hm. what a positively normal man.

[heraldofzaun]

nice turtleneck you absolute rapscallion

Incredibly confused and somewhat distressed Viktor noises.

[ringmaster-jack]

6'4 BABEYYY

“I STILL WIN BY AN INCH.”

[triplescope]

"There’s not enough room for us to be ourselves," he murmurs under the lamp light. "Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other."

Jhin’s words are always so pretty, poetic to Caitlyn’s prosaic. She’s grown used to decoding them as she would any cryptogram. They sparkle in the dim light, bright little stars of artistry and guile.

The key to any good performance is a seed of truth at its core. What, then, is at the heart of this?

She looks across the table at him, leaning in with measured grace. “If we’re admitting things, don’t you think it’s only polite to start with yourself?” she asks softly.

She is the reason to his rhyme, the lawbringer to his lawbreaker, a host of other dualities. It’s all part of a play on the stage of Piltover. Who would she be if she didn’t play her role until the finale is nearly upon them both?

[multimoose]

@curtaincalling​ said   :     “It all comes crashing down!”

                        𝐀     𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐌     𝐎𝐅     𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑     𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒     𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑     the     sunrise,     an     image     of     unnatural     bloodlust     painting     the     sky     red.     It     seems     that     Kaura,     for     the     thousandth     time,     has     been     caught     in     the     wrong     place     &     the     wrong     time     :     as     she     watches     the     crows     flee     from     the     treetops     nearby,     a     heavy     dread     settles     into     her     stomach.     Chocolate     eyes     catch     sight     of     Jhin,     &     her     head     shakes     instinctively     in     fear,     hooves     stepping     back     into     uneven     dirt     &     pitching     her     backward     as     she     moves     away.

                         ❛    𝑵𝒐     .     .     .     ❜                         Nausea     rises     in     her     stomach,     &     although     Kaura     isn’t     certain     what     she’s     so     AFRAID     OF,     she     knows     that     she     does     not     want     to     be     here.     This     man     —     something     is     unnatural     about     him,     something     HORRIFYING,     &     she     is     scared     of     what     he’ll     do.     Skittering     backwards,     Kaura     breaks     out     of     her     frozen     shock     to     flee     with     the     birds     :     &     for     a     moment,     nothing     separates     her     from     the     wildlife,     no     distinction     between     her     &     survival     instinct.                         ❛    𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆     𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕     —     ❜

[heartate-aa]

@curtaincalling​  sent  :  He lingers behind her, his gloved fingers gently moving across her shoulders. "Sing for me, my angel of music."

               𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧,  𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞,  𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬.  a never  -  ending cycle,  a broken record left to a fate of repeating itself in an endless loop for all of eternity,  and yet it remains a familiar comfort that ahri never tires of.  there is a beauty in it,  the lingering dust of nostalgia layered upon books left forgotten,  for it’s a song whose chords have long since left their imprint upon her throat in the climb of their notes and the stories they told.  it is her song for him,  one of the first of many she has learned for him,  because of him,  all at his careful guidance from within the shadows.

she once thought him to be a dream,  nothing more than the remnants of her intermingling imagination and fatigue,  a distant wraith so far out of reach and without a corporeal form,  no matter how close his voice had seemed.  and now,  she feels the ghost of his touch upon her shoulder.  feather  -  light and barely there,  even now ahri still wonders if she is imagining him,  if he is only but a figment of her imagination that has become far too real.  there,  in the flesh,  warm and present,  she hears the rhythmic cadence of his heart beating as strongly as her own resting within its brittle,  gilded cage that threatens to break at any moment as if it begs for a newfound freedom.

her voice is soft,  a gently flowing wisp escaping her parted lips.  it curls,  brushing her rose  -  tinted porcelain cheeks,  against her jaw,  wrapping around his lithe digits.  louder,  louder,  louder,  more,  more,  more  !  her voice nearly falters as it begins its subtle crescendo.  ahri stares into the mirror,  focusing her gaze upon her own image reflected within the crystalline glass.  she peers into her rich,  molten pools of shimmering gold and glittering aureate silks as if she is trying to ground herself where she is,  as if she is trying to convince herself that this is no dream,  that reality isn’t playing tricks upon every sense in her body.

ahri’s gaze falls to his hand as she sings,  rising up along his gloved wrist.  she loses him within the darkness of her room illuminated only by the small array of candles upon her ornate vanity.  he is there,  her phantom of the night,  but he still seems so far out of reach.  the corners of her mouth cannot help but to lift as each sweet melody spills past her lips in the timbre of her voice.  she sings smoothly,  her voice silken,  but graces a gentle vibrato with each new octave she climbs with ease.

the final note carries itself in an unabating echo and comes to a sharply dramatic halt.  her ears lower,  flattening against her head as she falls silent.  her gaze is strong,  unwavering,  not daring to falter.  she stares in her silence,  and it’s almost as if breath doesn’t even pass into her lungs.  she is afraid.  she is terrified that if she blinks,  he’ll be gone without a trace,  only the ghost of his touch against her skin that will fade as if he had never been there at all.

“    it’s you,    ”    ahri says at long last.  she almost wants to raise a hand of her own,  just to brush her fingers against his to confirm that he exists in the flesh and further cement it into reality,  but her hands remain obediently in her lap.    “    and here i thought i was going crazy.    ”