ᴘᴀʀᴀɢᴏɴ / ᴇxᴇᴄᴜᴛɪᴏɴᴇʀ

@ettards​ asks: "are you feeling any better today?“ if he has realized she has long healed, zelgius doesn’t mention it, green gaze lacking any sort of distrust or judgment. "we can rest one day longer, if you so desire, but lingering for any more than that might be unwise.”

A normal impulse for the exile to chase is on her insistence that she is fine. Like him, she knows what it is to command an army, to weave oneself through battle; lingering or too long was dangerous. 

But, when lips part to utter some semblance of the phrase “I’m fine,” the gash on her thigh gives a dull throb A hand covers the gauzed up wound on instinct, her face contorting into a grimace. It was a shame to think that, even with her ki, she could not expedite the process of such a deep cut any quicker than that of a more mortal warrior. 

“ One more day should be enough. I mean, it is feeling better, but  — “

Beat. Amber gaze lifts to  his emerald ones, and in the quiet moment between words, finds her heart trips on itself for one unflinching second. It is long enough for her to countenance to soften, and for her muscles —  once taut  —  to go lax. 

cacophony

    2020 has been hard on me. With everything going on in the world, plus personal irl struggles, things have been piling up. Honestly, I believe that joining this RPC was one of the best decisions I have made this year. You guys have been fantastic to me. The community may have its flaws, but they are significantly outshined by the amount of awesome people & amazing writers. This year has been tough on us all. But I would like to end it on a positive note, by offering something back to the people that helped me get through  quarantine, whether they knew it, or not.

   So here is my humble attempt at an art raffle! :D

 The rules to participate are simple:

You have to be following me.

You can only like/reblog the post once

Raffle ends on Christmas day aka the 25th uwu

    In the remote practice room, ettard’s lonesome song assumes a cavernous echo. It was that resonance that summoned the Grand General’s pompous gait; yet, he lingered at the doorway a little longer than he had planned to. Was it to admire the sight? Or did he perhaps have second thoughts over what he was about to request?

❛ I was hoping to find you here. ❜ Of course Zelgius caught onto him before he had intended to make his presence known; and yet Jericho stood his ground with a raised chin & a cold glare cast ettard’s way. He knew the offer was more of a pleasantry; the branded would never dare suggest they fight on equal terms, with real weapons. It was as endearing to think about as it was awfully offensive, for Swain. His gloved palm slipped under his lapel & undid the clasps holding his cloak in place.

 Dark fabrics were shed on the floor, his silhouette in plain sight as he stepped forth into the room. A revelation; a sheathed longsword dangled from his belt. It was a Noxian born blade; of dark steel. The handle was plain. Overall, she was shorter than ettard & her design was as austere as its wielder.

  Rarely would he ever enter a fight he knew he had little chance of winning. Zelgius had already made a name for himself among Noxian swordsmen. But Jericho was still confident he could at least give him a sweat for the victory. Back in the day he had proven his worth on several blades. And though it had never been his strong suit, a weapon is only the expression of the will that wields it; his was a strong will, and thus was his blade.

  The metallic rim of his leg brace glistened as his boot swept over the floor. One leg slipped behind the other to assume his fencing stance.

“i suppose my routine makes me predictable,” he chuckles, and though his expression remains warm by his own, muted standards, he’s quick to catch the way the grand general looks at his sword. he realizes he now knows what ettard has once meant and while his previous allegiance has been discarded, rightfully so, he knows jericho holds his amount of doubt regarding what lies in his heart about sephiran. if he’s honest, he doesn’t know in its entirety—but any flame he held for the heron has long died out.

he watches in silence as the other sheds away his cloak, the understanding that this is to become a sparring session coming to him with ease, without protest. see, he does not find the idea of sparring with the grand general distasteful by any means. he knows the man holds his pride as a warrior. despite how age may make him seem frailer and how his own blood makes him into a living weapon, the idea honors him.

the only issue he has, however, is that his sword is improper for the occasion.

ettard is a weapon meant for war; the magical proprieties it was imbued by the goddess who had it crafted makes it deadly, even when handled with the utmost care and expertise. taking to a loosely defensive stance, he frowns slightly. “i welcome the challenge, my lord, but i should—,” yet before he can finish the sentence, the older of the two engages. muscle memory serves him well, then, because his body reacts before his mind does, moving to parry swain’s engagement.

@ettards​ sent… “you are zelgius’s new liege, are you not?” the smile upon the former heron’s lips does not reach the green of his eyes and he makes little effort to conceal it to hríd. as sephiran, he is a politician—most know that the art of fake pleasantries is part of his repertoire. there’s a tilt of his head and his tone takes to something almost nostalgic.   “he’s as fine a knight as one can find, your highness. i trust you have learned so by now.”

“i am he.”

   your expression remains neutral, though a man as used to politics and court drama as this sephiran is would undoubtedly pick up on the ice in pale blue hues as you regard him. you’ve heard much about zelgius’s former master, both good and bad- the kindly soul who cared for the young empress of begnion. the promise of companionship for a lost soul who felt he had nowhere else to turn to. the attempt to destroy the world on his goddess’s behalf without a shred of remorse for his actions.

   you know that zelgius’s actions were his own choices. there was no bewitching on the heron’s part, merely pretty words and promises too good to pass up. he chose to follow and partake in his master’s plans, knowing full well what awaited the world by seeing it through… to act otherwise would be to do the knight a disservice; it would be as though he was incompetent and incapable of making decisions for himself. it would be a spit in the face to the entire concept of his atonement.

   yet, you cannot help but feel angry on your friend’s behalf. how dare this- this mere senator approach a clearly long suffering man at his lowest point and and offer salvation in the form of partaking in genocide?! you understand sephiran himself has suffered too, yes, but it hardly feels like an excuse to manipulate and prey on anyone’s emotions.

   and so, you fold your arms, hoping you seem at least a little taller than you are when you stand straighter.

“and indeed i have. more importantly, i have learned he has a good heart and kind soul.” how willingly the general has gone along with ylgr’s attempts to befriend him and play have not escaped your notice. “as he plans on accompanying me home to nifl when all of this is over, i can only hope i will be able to give him a safe, comfortable home. his happiness and well-being are the most important thing to me, not his prowess as a warrior. he could be utterly useless with a blade and i would still happily bring him along, so long as he thought he could be happy in my kingdom.”