to be of service.

   Despite all that has happened in the better part of a decade, at her core, Ana Amari remains as zestful and exuberant now as much as she was in her youth, hidden behind grey-white hair and laugh lines - age and injury has changed her demeanor, but not her spirit. In Grayson’s presence, she has always pushed her proverbial buttons until earning her that tried and true reaction. It is, after all, the basis of a long-standing friendship between so-called rivals in their field. At the end of the day, their boisterous banter would not exist without it. 

  Ana’s brow merely raises with the infraction of stealing a drag, noting the way Grayson seemingly draws herself in that much closer. The other woman envelopes her, in a protective sort of way that she doesn’t mind. In the stillness of her empty home, their existence brings warmth, lively and well, despite the late, late hour. 

  “I imagine you liked not being talked back to, for once,” Ana says with that subtle grin, growing by the mere millimeter, though it fades fast with the implication. She envisions the sight of the grieving woman, alongside her grieving daughter at her marked grave, the visits on lonely days, the anniversaries of her death. “I hope you’ve not forgotten what it is you’d like to say to me,” She alludes to her curiosities, but doesn’t push for an answer.

There will be time for that now. 

  With the second offering of the cigar, Ana takes another draw, holding it before her between two calloused fingers. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Much like the repetitive action of loading a bolt action rifle, smoking’s motion is second nature. They share in this indulgence too, with many a night spent deep in a case, cigarette after cigarette until sunrise threatened to crest over the horizon. Ana turns her head toward Grayson, viewing her strong, proud profile in full, as much as her limited vision allows. This closeness, her warmth puts Ana at ease despite earlier anxieties and nervousness that coming back from the dead puts in a person. 

  “Here and there. It could be worse,” She finally answers; it isn’t a lie - whatever hole in the wall she manages to find where she will not be bothered becomes a temporary home. Her free hand reaches for another of the ale bottles, cracking open the cap to bring it to her mouth with a hearty swig. It isn’t to her taste, but it goes down all the same. She sets it back on the table with a gentle thud. Her head leans back against the chair, against Grayson’s arm. “Finding real estate as a dead woman is not a simple task, but I make do with what I have.” A beat passes. Her hand then falls to the top of Grayson’s knee, giving it an amicable squeeze, and that ghost of a grin returns, meeting her eyes. “I don’t think you’re drunk enough to be offering me a place to stay.” 

         “ --- I haven't forgotten. ” She doesn't care to elaborate. Second chance or not, some things the dead will readily understand are impossible to admit to the living. Grayson's focus drops to the strong hand draped all too confidently across her knee. Absurd. What is it doing there? Trying to bait her again, she'd bet. She closes a decisive grip around the wayward thing, lifting it firmly beyond the vicinity of her thigh. Holding it. Her thumb maps out the prominent veins beneath Amari’s soft brown skin, the tight sinews, the little packages of muscle adorning each digit. Not skeletal. Alive. Ageing, but thriving. And homeless, by the sound of it. Grayson's gaze drills sharply into the woman's features, catching the glint of her golden eye.

         “ You can stay, ” she relents at last, satisfied with the generosity she's able to feed into her voice: an acquiescence rather than an invitation. Helping out an old friend in need; there's nothing to it but common decency. It’s her job to look out for her citizens, after all, even the most annoying ones. But that damn hand --- THAT needs to go. She's still holding it. Emphatically, Grayson sets it down on Amari's own knee and releases it there, determination lining her mouth. Tonight, she won't be tolerating any games from this overgrown child. The cigar is soon finished between their combined efforts, mingling with the ale, the whiskey, and her late-night shock until she's pleasantly sedated, a sigh of comfort unfolding at the bottom of her throat.

        “ You'd better tell me you're not a snorer, ” she murmurs, the words a rumble of contented exhaustion. “ I've gotta be out early tomorrow. Patrol duty. Need to teach some new wardens how to keep their throats uncut in the Undercity. ” Her eyes narrow with foreboding suspicion as a pivotal detail worms its way into her clouded conscience. “ I don't have a guest room. You'll have to sleep with me. ”

    “I-” Ana sucks in air through her teeth, stopping mid-drink with Grayson’s proposal. It has torn at her from the inside out; knocked from her pedestal of justice to survive by the hands of a boy living in the undercity, she has seen the other side, the darker side. It makes any thought of coming back to her old life a painful reminder of her mistakes. “I don’t know, Grayson,” She gives her answer quickly, beneath her breath. It seems to be still an open wound, one she has not yet tended - she isn’t sure how to. 

  Ana gives herself momentary reprieve through taking another swig of the whiskey, letting it warm her throat, her belly. I barely know where I’m heading now, she wants to say. Instead, she poses a contemplative glance toward her old friend, corner of her lips just tilting upward. “I’ll think on it.” 

  When the focus shifts to that of her daughter, Ana decidedly then, finishes the whiskey in her glass, but doesn’t reach for another. It is arguably, an old habit but one that temporarily eases the brunt of the reality around them. “I know. I’ve written her,” Ana allows the sentiment to settle, trying to find where Grayson is looking - it is, decidedly, avoiding her gaze. A wisecrack lingers on the tip of her tongue, but she needn’t be cruel. Grief carries on; it isn’t everyday that a loss comes back from the dead. “Whether or not she has read them is… unknown.” 

  So, she leaves it at that all the same. Grayson’s demeanor changes so sharply; had she not known her so well, she’d have thought it was surprising, but Ana is no fool. Though, the remark about her ego very nearly drives a laugh from the depths of her chest; it surfaces as a low chuckle, watching as the other woman rummages through cupboards and fridge alike, procuring only the bare minimum of rewards. 

  “Maybe a full fridge?” She quips, anticipating Grayson’s return. Closer now, she studies the lines, the sharp cut of her square jaw, the gaunt of her cheeks, the way she takes that first draw of her cigar; the smell of which is just as familiar, just as welcoming. She herself breathes it in by proxy - another old habit left behind with her old life, and yet–  “I can think of plenty of useful things for my mouth,” Ana smirks, reaching not for the offering on the table but the cigar between Grayson’s lips with a nimble fingers, caring not to ask for permission as she puts it to her own mouth, taking a hefty draw before giving it back. Experience makes it easy, though the smoke tastes foreign.

“If I’m so nosy, you’re making it awfully hard to want to leave with all this,” Ana retorts, pouring them both another serving of whiskey, rounding out the bottle. Initially uncertain of this visit’s outcome, she indulges if only to let this rendezvous last, well into the night. With glass in hand, she turns to Grayson. “I missed this, you know.” I missed you. “Including you and your stubborn streak.”

        Well, that seals it -- at her core, despite the metamorphoses age and experience might have brought on, Amari is EXACTLY the woman they lost in that shoot-out years ago. Grayson quirks a dark brow, frustratingly speechless for a moment. Plenty of useful things, yes? Her gaze drops to the impertinent mouth in question, the one that can't stop flaunting its own superbness and has stolen her damn cigar. Amari's lips capture her attention for a second too long as she watches her soak in the first lungful of smoke. She decides, perhaps not unwisely, to ignore that particular witticism. Her rival-friend has always been at her smuggest - and most insufferable - whenever Grayson was foolish enough to pay heed to her taunting, to let herself be bullied into deserting the boundaries of her comfort. On most accounts, however, the woman is right. That fridge should be fed a few more nutritious morsels. And, just for once, Grayson doesn't mind a bit of company with her drink and the stillness of her house. She enjoys it. Fears for it to end, in fact.

        The captive cigarette is returned into her grasp and led promptly to her mouth. She can almost taste the warmth of Amari's lips against her own. Somehow, Grayson's arm slips around the back of her guest's chair, pressing against the folds of her cloak. It’s getting late. Clearly she’s losing control of her motor skills.

        “ I missed you just the same, ” she answers quietly, earnestly. Second chances demand to be honoured. She won't let this one go to waste. “ I missed our conversations. There were a lot of things I wanted to tell you, but never could. It ... never could compare, talking to that statue. No one to drive me up the wall. No one to lock horns with. And then that ass. ” She almost smiles. Another greedy drag from the cigarette, then she passes it back to her old sniper. She holds her tobacco-thickened breath in her chest for a few mechanical pulses of her heart. Strange, this. A new future is starting to crystallise before her; one she doesn't dare grasp for fear that it will splinter in her luck-starved hold. With Ana Amari in her life again, what will change? What if she loses her a second time? Grayson exhales a steady stream of smoke past the growing tightness in her throat, brings a bottle of ale to her lips without drinking from it. Her finger taps restlessly against the moss-green glass. She wants to be alone, desperately, grimly, to sort through her thoughts in peace. But more importantly, she doesn't want Amari to leave; neither tonight nor tomorrow. The idea alone twists her guts, which is ridiculous and unfortunate. It’s idiotic to depend on anyone’s presence. Especially on the presence of a dead woman walking.

        “ Where d'you live now? ” she hears herself ask. Amari's warmth radiates through the fabric of her uniform. Against all likelihood, her closeness works like a balm on Grayson's nerves, seeping gently through her body, softening the knots in her shoulders, soothing the tension under her scalp. A deep, burdened breath. The fragrance of her friend's silver hair tickles the back of her tongue. Different. But almost something she could get used to again. “ Got some place to stay? ”

Rules - Use BOLD to highlight your muse’s personality traits. Use ITALICS for traits that only apply in certain situations.

tagged by: stole this from myself >:)

tagging: YOU <3

NEGATIVE TRAITS

Abrasive ∥ Abrupt ∥ Agonizing ∥ Aggressive ∥ Aimless ∥ Aloof ∥ Amoral ∥ Angry ∥ Anxious ∥ Apathetic ∥ Arbitrary ∥ Argumentative ∥ Arrogant ∥ Artificial ∥ Asocial ∥ Bewildered ∥ Bizarre ∥ Bland ∥ Blunt ∥ Boisterous ∥ Brittle ∥ Brutal ∥ Calculating ∥ Callous ∥ Cantankerous ∥ Careless ∥ Charmless ∥ Childish ∥ Clumsy ∥ Coarse ∥ Cold ∥ Colorless ∥ Complacent ∥ Complaining ∥ Compulsive ∥ Conceited ∥ Condemnatory ∥ Conformist ∥ Confused ∥ Contemptible ∥ Conventional ∥ Cowardly ∥ Crass ∥ Crazy ∥ Criminal ∥ Critical ∥ Crude ∥ Cruel ∥ Cynical ∥ Decadent ∥ Deceitful ∥ Delicate ∥ Demanding ∥ Dependent ∥ Desperate ∥ Destructive ∥ Devious ∥ Difficult ∥ Disconcerting ∥ Discontented ∥ Discouraging ∥ Discourteous ∥ Dishonest ∥ Disloyal ∥ Disobedient ∥ Disorderly ∥ Disorganized ∥ Disputatious ∥ Disrespectful ∥ Disruptive ∥ Dissonant ∥ Distractible ∥ Disturbing ∥ Dogmatic ∥ Domineering ∥ Dull ∥ Easily Discouraged ∥ Egocentric ∥ Envious ∥ Erratic ∥ Escapist ∥ Extravagant ∥ Extreme ∥ Faithless ∥ False ∥ Fanatical ∥ Fanciful ∥ Fatalistic ∥ Fawning ∥ Fearful ∥ Fickle ∥ Fiery ∥ Fixed ∥ Flamboyant ∥ Foolish ∥ Forgetful ∥ Fraudulent ∥ Frightening ∥ Frivolous ∥ Gloomy ∥ Graceless ∥ Greedy ∥ Grim ∥ Gullible ∥ Hateful ∥ Haughty ∥ Hedonistic ∥ Hesitant ∥ Hidebound ∥ High-handed ∥ Hostile ∥ Ignorant ∥ Imitative ∥ Impatient ∥ Impractical ∥ Imprudent ∥ Impulsive ∥ Inconsiderate ∥   Incurious   ∥ Indecisive ∥ Indulgent ∥ Inert ∥ Inhibited ∥ Insecure ∥ Insensitive ∥ Insincere ∥ Insulting ∥ Intolerant ∥ Irascible ∥ Irrational ∥ Irresponsible ∥ Irritable ∥ Lazy ∥ Malicious ∥ Mannerless ∥ Mechanical ∥ Meddlesome ∥ Melancholic ∥ Messy ∥ Miserable ∥ Miserly ∥ Misguided ∥ Mistaken ∥ Money-minded ∥ Moody ∥ Morbid ∥ Muddle-headed ∥ Naive ∥ Narcissistic ∥ Narrow ∥ Narrow-minded ∥ Negative ∥ Neglectful ∥ Neurotic ∥ Nihilistic ∥ Obnoxious ∥ Obsessive ∥ Obvious ∥ Odd ∥ Offhand ∥ One-dimensional ∥ One-sided ∥ Opinionated ∥ Opportunistic ∥ Oppressed ∥ Outrageous ∥ Paranoid ∥ Passive ∥ Pedantic ∥ Perverse ∥ Petty ∥ Plodding ∥ Pompous ∥ Possessive ∥ Power-hungry ∥ Predatory ∥ Prejudiced ∥ Presumptuous ∥ Pretentious ∥ Prim ∥ Procrastinating ∥ Provocative ∥ Puritanical ∥ Quirky ∥ Reactionary ∥ Reactive ∥ Regimental ∥ Regretful ∥ Repentant ∥ Repressed ∥ Resentful ∥ Ridiculous ∥ Rigid ∥ Ritualistic ∥ Ruined ∥ Sadistic ∥ Sanctimonious ∥ Scheming ∥ Scornful ∥ Secretive ∥ Sedentary ∥ Selfish ∥ Self-indulgent ∥ Shallow ∥ Short-sighted ∥ Sloppy ∥ Slow ∥ Sly ∥ Small-thinking ∥ Softheaded ∥ Sordid ∥ Steely ∥ Stiff ∥ Stupid ∥ Submissive ∥ Superficial ∥ Superstitious ∥ Suspicious ∥ Tactless ∥ Tasteless ∥ Tense ∥ Thievish ∥ Thoughtless ∥ Timid ∥ Transparent ∥ Treacherous ∥ Trendy ∥ Troublesome ∥ Unappreciative ∥ Uncaring ∥ Uncharitable ∥ Unconvincing ∥ Uncooperative ∥ Uncreative ∥ Uncritical ∥ Unctuous ∥ Undisciplined ∥ Unfriendly ∥ Ungrateful ∥ Unhealthy ∥ Unimaginative ∥ Unimpressive ∥ Unlovable ∥ Unpolished ∥ Unprincipled ∥ Unrealistic ∥ Unreflective ∥ Unreliable ∥ Unrestrained ∥ Unstable ∥ Vacuous ∥ Vague ∥ Venomous ∥ Vindictive ∥ Vulnerable ∥ Weak ∥ Wilful

NEUTRAL TRAITS

Absentminded ∥ Ambitious ∥ Amusing ∥ Artful ∥ Ascetic ∥ Authoritarian ∥ Big-thinking ∥ Boyish ∥ Breezy ∥ Business-like ∥ Busy ∥ Casual ∥ Cerebral ∥ Chummy ∥ Circumspect ∥ Competitive ∥ Complex ∥ Confidential ∥ Conservative ∥ Contradictory ∥ Crisp ∥ Cute ∥ Deceptive ∥ Determined ∥ Dominating ∥ Dreamy ∥ Driving ∥ Droll ∥ Dry ∥ Earthy ∥ Feminine∥ Masculine ∥ Emotional ∥ Enigmatic ∥ Experimental ∥ Familial ∥ Folksy ∥ Formal ∥ Freewheeling ∥ Frugal ∥ Glamorous ∥ Guileless ∥ High-spirited ∥ Hurried ∥ Hypnotic ∥ Iconoclastic ∥ Idiosyncratic ∥ Impassive ∥ Impersonal ∥ Impressionable ∥ Intense ∥ Invisible ∥ Irreligious ∥ Irreverent ∥ Maternal ∥ Mellow ∥ Modern ∥ Moralistic ∥ Mystical ∥ Neutral ∥ Noncommittal ∥ Non-competitive ∥ Obedient ∥ Old-fashioned ∥ Ordinary ∥ Outspoken ∥ Paternalistic ∥ Physical ∥ Placid ∥ Political ∥ Predictable ∥ Preoccupied ∥ Private ∥ Progressive ∥ Proud ∥ Pure ∥ Questioning ∥ Quiet ∥ Religious ∥ Reserved ∥ Restrained ∥ Retiring ∥ Sarcastic ∥ Self-conscious ∥ Sensual ∥ Sceptical ∥ Smooth ∥ Soft ∥ Solemn ∥ Solitary ∥ Stern ∥ Strict ∥ Stubborn ∥ Stylish ∥ Subjective ∥ Surprising ∥ Tough ∥ Unaggressive ∥ Unambitious ∥ Unceremonious ∥ Unchanging ∥ Undemanding ∥ Unfathomable ∥ Unhurried ∥ Uninhibited ∥ Unpatriotic ∥ Unpredictable ∥ Unsentimental ∥ Whimsical

POSITIVE TRAITS

      Gloved hands hold the glass carefully, as if pressing too hard will break the glass, shatter it into a thousand pieces. Ana raises it to her lips, though she only takes a swig, rather than consume it all. The whiskey can wait. This new path she has chosen to walk is more or less, the straight and narrow, though old temptations raise their head - just like it’s old habit to be in Grayson’s company after hours, like the nights they spent figuring out cases together, laid about this very table, trying to pinpoint responsibility for all kinds of crime. 

    In this second life, she has acted as secretive, masked vigilante, lending a helping hand rather than an Enforcer’s strict adherence to rules and regulations of the Council. In the depths of the undercity, she has seen it in a new light - of people struggling to simply survive, to get by while ignored by the rest of Piltover, like a dirty secret, or bastard child. She sips at her tea again, a bigger drink than before to swallow back that lump in her throat. This is the first she has spoken it aloud; a reason she has reworded over and over again in her letters to Fareeha, but to speak it into existence is indescribably heavy to the tongue; a burden of its own accord.

   “Something like that,” Ana adds as an afterthought. She watches Grayson down tea, then whiskey in quick succession. Lips curl into a slight smirk. The other woman’s tenacity has always been an admirable trait; stubborn as an ox, she’s embodied it more with age. With the emptying of her tea glass, Ana reaches for the bottle of whiskey herself, pouring only a single, though she doubts, perhaps, this will be the only liquor she consumes tonight.

  “I’m still the same woman you once knew,” Ana begins, carefully, slowly raising that glass to her mouth once more, though she watches Grayson over its rim. Whiskey burns the back of her throat - a variety tinged with spice in its aftertaste. A sigh heaves from the confines of her ribcage. “But I have found that… I would rather preserve life than to take it away. I have seen too many faces etched in my memory, of lives we have ended in the name of justice…” 

  Guilt sits on her tongue, makes it hard to swallow, but she takes that whiskey down like a lifeline, to ease that pain, that burden that eats away at her with every memory. “And… I want to be a better mother, too, but that is… a work in progress.”

  She dare not omit that she has not yet seen Fareeha, face to face. Perhaps her letters remain burnt to a crisp in the bottom of her home hearth, or ignored and left to collect dust. Ana swirls the amber liquid around the glass absent-mindedly, though her attention remains fixated on Grayson with a hundred questions of her own. “You still live in an empty house…” An observation, poised more so like a leading question, to prod, just a little. Tit for tat. 

         Too much bloodshed. Yes. Grayson bows her head in silent sympathy, studying her ungloved hands beneath half-lowered eyelids. Her fingers have pulled the trigger on a number of people who would have grown old without her intervention. It wasn't a love for brutality that made her join the Enforcers. But a tolerance for it --- that's another matter. Anyone who chooses this path must have the capacity for violence, and a certain readiness to employ it. She's always hoped that there might be a different way. Sometimes, rarely, there is. Grayson raises her chin, catching Amari's golden gaze in her own.

        “ Should you want to make a comeback, my old girl, ” she offers quietly, not intending to pressure her friend, “ I'm certain that we could find you an adequate position. You could work as an investigator. We need bright minds and steady hands. Ones that won't reach for a pistol at the slightest disagreement. You were always one of our best. It hasn't been the same without you. ”

        Here, she looks away, taking a sudden interest in a droplet of spilled whiskey on the table. The spot that once held her heart tightens around a dull ache. She is quick to regain control, hoping that the firmness in her voice will gloss over her momentary embarrassment. “ The kid will need some time to come ‘round, Amari. It was a hard blow, losing you. -- For her. For many of us. Keep that in mind when you talk to her. ” Wisest to leave it at that. Fareeha is a different topic; one that's best reserved for a time when Grayson's brain isn't hammering louder than Piltover's biggest smithy.

        Thank heavens for Amari's impeccable timing: whatever compassion Grayson had for her drains away fast at that tasteless prying. Her brows draw sharply together, a snarl stealing into her words. ‘An empty house’. Ha. Smarmy fucker. “ Mm, you're doing a great job populating it with your ego. ” She rises somewhat vengefully from her seat, supporting herself against the table with one hard-knuckled fist. Time for food. Something to stuff that impertinent mouth with. Grayson makes promptly for the nearest cupboard and finds, horrifyingly, nothing but a package of dried meat; a few bottles of ale in the refrigerator. It'll have to do. Her haul is put down decisively in front of her nocturnal intruder. Succumbing to a certain resignation, she sits down close beside her, retrieves a cigar from the inner lining of her jacket, and lights it with the flick of a match.

        “ I like my house quiet. What was I supposed to fill it with? ” She is gentler now, thronging her chest with smoke, leaning one elbow against Amari's shoulder. “ You know I'm not fond of company. I am better off alone. Without certain someones nosing about my business. It’s how I work. -- Have some more whiskey. Eat. Do something useful with your mouth for once. ”

        “You should have come to me right away.”

        Jane reaches for the overhead light and pulls it over. The sallow bulb deepens the shadows under Grayson’s eyes and the lines at the corners of her mouth, which she gathers in a skittering glance. She reaches for the buttons of Grayson’s shirt, undoes them brusquely. The long seam she created with the original surgery shows in a band of silvery tissue against the other woman’s brown skin.

        “Hold still.” She has a stethoscope on one of the cluttered tables nearby. It easily detects the stertorous rasp of Grayson’s breathing, and deep inside, the irregular whirr-click of a mechanical heart beating out of time.

        “I could have had this fixed the same day,” she says. She loosens the earpieces of the stethoscope, mouth thinning into a line. “I could have taken care of it. You should have come to me right away,” she repeats. “But you left it. Now you’re suffering. And it will be harder. The damage could have worsened. You might have pushed yourself too hard. Why do they let you work like this?”

        That gruff efficiency -- Grayson must admit that she enjoys it, values it for the amount of time and social convention it spares her. No simpering niceties, no complex protocols to follow. It gives her visits an almost recreational edge, despite their usually unpleasant nature. She sits back in her chair and lets herself be stripped by those expert hands without a sound of complaint, rummaging about her trouser pocket for her pipe and her tobacco pouch while she waits. Elaborate tactics are required to light the pipe around Doctor Andrews' equally intricate fussing. Finally --- there. Mmm. That’s the good Noxian stuff. Burns right through the lungs.

        Somehow, she musters enough decency to look chastened by the lecture. Even her best efforts, however, can't hold back the short laugh that escapes her along with her first exhalation of smoke. “ I'm the Sheriff, ” Grayson reminds her disgruntled genius, decidedly refusing to flinch at the touches to her battered chest. “ I'd like to see anyone try to stop me from working. ” She risks a downward glance at the skin peeking through her open shirt front. The bruising isn't what's worrying her. Flesh, skin, and bone all heal with time. The little apparatus that's pumping her blood, though, seems to grow more erratic with every beat. She sighs.

⚔️ Enforcer Sheriff Grayson, written by Freddie ⚔️ sideblog of annelistre ⚔️ 

@bomsplode​ sent:  downfall + reverse Meme / Accepting!

        Rain slaps down hard across the narrow streets and slanted rooftops. In the steady beam of Grayson's torch, sweeping methodically over heaps of smoking rubble, the wind-driven raindrops skitter back and forth like swarming insects. Her eyes narrow against the sting of the night air.  Every so often, her forearm passes across her brow, wiping at the water that drips from her helmet.

         Another massive explosion in the outer city. The third this week already. Authority is slipping out of her hands. For now, all she can do is perform some last-minute damage control; here she is, looking for survivors amidst the steaming wreckage. The light of her torch meets toppled walls, splintered glass, deepening puddles ... blue hair. For a moment, Grayson freezes in her tracks. Then, her step quickens. A small body lies crumpled before her boots, limbs twisted and pale, but - she leans close --- yes! Definitely alive. She squats down low beside the curled-up creature, careful not to startle her, and lifts the kid’s bedraggled chin with gentle, gloved fingertips.

        “ --- Now. What’s this, hmm? ”