rangers: ASSEMBLE!

most important rule for all my blogs is reblog karma -- i enforce it because when i was a small fry of the rpc, i was kinda burned by it. just treat rp as the two way street it should be and we’ll get along just peachy. 

you’ll notice i don’t format. that’s intentional. most formatting things bug my eyes and adhd but if i enjoy writing w u it’s not a big deal.

I run a couple blogs here as sideblogs. 

it's time for @justicewinged to be retired as a url. i will be deleting and making a multimuse, effective rather soon, with Quinn as a primary (she's not going anywhere lol). to preserve all my Quinn posts, I'll be paring down and reblogging a bunch

new blog will be called @revalorant (the name is just reserved, this is not the blog's final location) and it will be dash only, highly selective, probably still not mutuals only but I am 🤏 this close to instating that as a rule for me because I am just that tired and overwhelmed by Tumblr rp

my tagging system will be very similar to what the system is on @stolenmagi rn. i found it works better for me to keep it simple enough an amply trained monkey can do it, so nothing fancy, no bells or whistles, idgaf anymore

if you follow me for @stolenmagi... Ros will become a primary blog as soon as @revalorant is up and running with all the bits. his move will be so much easier if I even have to do anything... idk, we'll find out

Living in a tiny house in winter with a big bird, yet decked out in quite fancy looking armor. The noodle would like to know more about them.

He utters a strange, guttoral sound. Almost like a failed purr. Not a sound dragons usually make.

unprompted

Quinn’s family’s abode rested on the outskirts of Uwendale. It barely had any claim to Uwendale at all but said just enough to boast land and offerings of farm goods to the remainder of the mountain community as they needed, and horses for the far-away nobles. It all kept a steady income, and their tithes to the lords surrounding Uwendale supported everyone. (It’s probably where Quinn got her tendency to demand the right to help everyone.)

And helping everyone is exactly what she did this snowy season, having visited home for the holiday. She should have known that everyone would ask her to stay for a while.

When a dragon showed up, things did change, somewhat. It had been stalking the property for the time she’d been out here, and a part of Quinn wondered if it was all her fault, bringing trouble out to her family, no matter how irrational. The burden of supporting her family had always fallen upon her shoulders, no matter how little she said anything to anyone. Valor is up in his makeshift mews, their little home away from home, and Quinn has only girded her armor for a sense of protection. Leather, after all, doesn’t do much in the long run to protect. She’d learned that the hard way this past season in the field.

The dragon was familiar, and she almost hated that she’d seen it before. And the very instant she laid eyes upon it, she pulled out her bowgun, and trained it on the… strangely purring beast. She scowled down its sights.

unprompted

The hawk-eagle on her shoulder lifted his crest, curiosity. Feathers twitched eagerly in the soft airy breeze and barred wings shift, taloned feet stamp angrily at the plate of armor upon her shoulder like he had something to prove. He had nothing to prove at all. Quinn, to her credit, after only a moment of sizing this dandy up from a side-eye, had figured as much.

“Dunno, Kap, what are you thinking, buddy?”

Renzus turned to glance at the sketches, taking a few additional moments to work out with Quinn the exact particulars. The crease of a man’s face. The shape of a scar. The length of the hairline. The crookedness of a nose. It didn’t take too long, and at the back of his mind, Renzus lamented that he could not simply conjure forth the images from memory. Of course, such things were often impermissible in most courts of law, and especially here in Demacia, it would be playing his hand far too often. ‘Concerned stranger’ was the persona that Renzus needed to maintain for as long as possible, until the necessary actions were taken.

“I will do my best to recall anything else I saw. Again, however, I fear I might not have been able to see more than the grotesquery of their crimes.” The First Crow admitted, before placing two fingers on the side of his head, casting his eyes downwards in contemplation. He taps the sketch of one of them, the young-looking one without particularly distinguishing features. “This one. He had a brooch, with the heraldry of House Crownguard. Of that, I am certain. I see those icons on many banners that fly from High Silvermere’s battlements.”

He paused, before lifting his eyes to meet Lavoie’s gaze. “Commander Lavoie, if it helps, I did not find my friend among the bodies. He is a man in his thirties, with long brown hair and a goatee. Green eyes, and just about six feet tall. His name is Garric Moroes, a trader who runs a curio shop in Jandelle. I am certain that he was kidnapped, from my earlier investigations, but he has either been moved somewhere else, or more hopefully, managed to escape. If you can, keep a look out for him. I would not wish such a gruesome fate upon anyone.”

Renzus rubbed his chin, recalling one further detail among the memory. “If it helps, I did see four red sashes in the house, all identical. Perhaps an arm or headband. It might be some kind of uniform, among those fanatics.”

@justicewinged

The ranger-knight rests a sympathetic hand on Renzus’s shoulder. “Hey,” she offers softly. “You were faced with a lot of stress in these past couple of days. This is a lot, and you have every potential of doing us a lot of good here.”

She took down the notes onto the sheets of paper for her records, and glanced at the commander nearby.

Lavoie nodded slowly, appraising both Quinn’s swift work and Renzus’s concerned features. Whether he believed their cover story or not, Quinn couldn’t tell, because he was never a particularly easy man to read. It came with the territory of their work: they needed to be able to blend in just as well as a Noxian spy, because their job often fell into the same categories of work.

“Four red sashes,” he muttered, looking over the faces of the drawings spread out before them. “You can leave the rest of the investigation to us. This is far too dangerous for a civilian to be joining us–”

Quinn cut in, then, just because she knew she’d be able to fix this only before Renzus said a word. “I’ll contact you if I locate your friend Garric Moroes. You’ll be the first to know.” A beat, and she looked to her commander with steady eyes. “I think we’ve offered him enough in the way of questioning. We have a lot of information to investigate here.” Back to Renzus. “Of course we appreciate all the help you’ve offered us so far.”

It started off with an unfeigned display of vexation, now the mage was too exhausted to persist in arguing with a nobody. Initially planning to voice his frustation further with a scowl, he narrowed his blazing yellow eyes in annoyance instead. Never again would he allow himself to let his guard down.

❝ If you intend to insult my garments AT LEAST make an effort to be fashionable. Demacian standards are plainly embarrassing; you are no exception to the rule. ❞ short and effectual, although he’s always derided the empire’s definition of nobility and class. Despite the dispute, he delivered the comeback reasonably calmly - as opposed to the upcoming response that is.

A pause, followed by a resonant; scornful laughter, varying from a controlled mocking tone to the maniacal type. It lasted for a good minute too, offering a sense of satisfaction to the evildoer. ❝ Petricite? PETRICITE amulets?! OH DARLING, how I pity your ignorance and unawareness! ❞ he exclaimed, taking a more serious posture and catching his breath from all that cackling. ❝ At my fingertips lies clear PRIMORDIAL energy nesting deep within the universe, dear. Petricite absorbs a chunk of its impact, but unlike common spells, but it does NOT entirely nullify its effects; nor does it prevent the caster from using it. You may be saved from witnessing TRUE power, but I could still leave lethal marks on your precious armour and flesh!

Why do you think I continue to thrive and rule over these lands? Neither Demacia nor Noxus’ men have the composition to stop me! ❞ with his sheer confidence out of the way, his bigger gauntlet raised in the air, channeling flickers of corrupt energy that would return his hat at his disposal, wearing and tilting it with pride. There were room for debate and doubt in his claims - most notably his proclaimed resistence to petricite - but to say he was no ordinary adversary was no understatement.

❝ That’s assuming you’ll safely make it back to your post to bring all your friends, of course. My patience has limits, and I’ve realised I’ve been TOO KIND with the likes of you. How about I incarcerate you and your bird for eternity after this discussion? ❞

“Petricite-treated armor. Blades. A petricite cage. Tinctures of petricite. No matter what way you cut it, Yordle, you’ll be lucky if sick is all you feel. Ancient magic or not, our home has been built on the Ruination. Our home is safe.”

It’s not that she’s trying to reassure herself; she doesn’t need that. This Yordle must have been under a rock for a couple hundred years.

He’ll learn the error of his ways soon enough.

Quinn also doesn’t care for his idle threats. She’d already prepared herself to leave, brought Valor down from the sky, took the hat, and crumpled it into the pouch at her hip – rather unceremoniously, at that.

“It’s never good, Quinn. I know as much.”

Renzus puts his head back against the wall, slowly realizing that he was getting a little better each time at filtering out the petricite buzz that the mineral was inducing in his mind. It gnawed at his sanity less, but in doing so, he wondered just what it was like for Sylas to have been chained and practically buried in the stuff. 

No wonder his rebellion was so wantonly violent.

“Quinn…do you know what it’s like, to be a mage surrounded by petricite?” He whispered, looking up at her with his grey eyes strained with effort. “Do any of your leaders? It fits the definition of torture. It’s a needling, incessant pain. It’s like one of your senses being set aflame. I can’t explain it with words, to someone who’s never touched the arcane before. But it is a profound kind of pain. The kind that torture of the body could never replicate, and I’ve been on the receiving end of even Noxus’ greatest torturers before.”

He touches his shoulder, and it still came away red and damp, despite the poultice. On a practical note, the pain was affecting his body’s ability to heal, even naturally. The petricite buzz was keeping his fight-or-flight instincts constantly on edge, and that precluded any attempt to close the wound.

“Has anyone in Demacia ever asked themselves if they were okay with inflicting this kind of pain on others, in the name of security? Have your rulers? Your courts? I don’t know which is worse, Quinn. That your leaders have either been blithely ignorant of this question, or that they have long ago resolved that the answer to it is that they simply do not care.”

Then again, perhaps he was preaching to the choir. He knew that Quinn wanted better for her country. He knew he could count on her when it matters. Renzus just hoped that her efforts would be enough.

He slumped against the wall, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing. It was going to be a long few weeks, before the reckoning with the courts came.

He just hoped that he would survive to get there.

Quinn hesitates, just before the door, her hand lifted slightly to unlock it, when she stops. This pain Renzus describes is familiar, though. It’s like a load of bricks perched on her chest so she cannot draw a full breath, a tiny splinter caught in her foot that she can’t pull out, and cotton filling her head as a fever might. All of that, all at once. She’d never thought of herself to be inclined to the arcane, but it would make a bit of sense regarding certain quirks. The way she just understands Valor, the intuition she has within her forests... the fact she avoids the city against all orders.

“I can only imagine,” she says, though she’s half-lying. Renzus is smart enough he might pick up on it, she thinks. “Our kingdom was meant to be safe, but in the effort to ensure that, we took measures that only served to harm our people further.”

The ranger-knight isn’t one to show her hand to people who are on a need-to-know basis, and she doesn’t want to tell Renzus he’s just earned himself a place on that list in the most explicit terms.

     Even after the door is opened, Xayah remains still. She had drawn away as the woman came close, hovering in the shadows of the back of the cage like a wounded animal. When she’d been sniping through the bars, she hadn’t actually expected anything to come of it. Humans were cowardly creatures, in her eyes; usually content to stare at the problems of the world and do nothing like a bunch of wide-eyed fledglings fresh from the nest. 

     She considers making a break for it, with the door open. The tree line is visible in the distance, and Xayah has always been good at disappearing into woodland when she needs to. She rises from her knees to her feet. Alarm rings in her head as her legs buckle, and she has to grab onto the door and the stranger’s hand in order to avoid falling.

     Have I been this weak the whole time? She’d been sitting or laying down for most of the journey and hadn’t noticed anything strange. It had been easy enough to attribute any bad feeling to the dire situation, rather than something physical. What had she said? Petricite? That’s a common tongue word that she doesn’t know.

      ❝ —not injured. ❞ She says through an exhale. The last thing that Xayah wants is to be caught looking weak in front of a human and a stranger, who could very well take advantage of her weakness to hurt her. She rises to her feet, slowly, and leaning a little bit, but she does it. 

     She hates this. Having to put faith in humans, who are never reliable. This one has been kind to her so far, she knows, but how long would that last? Xayah shifts her wolf-gold gaze from the ground, to the stranger, and then ahead. The other men will be returning soon, that’s certain. 

      ❝ i can walk, ❞ She says, after her moment of hesitation, ❝ —but not fast. i can—you’re right, we should leave. ❞

“Easy!” By instinct, she’s there to catch her if she falls. “Steady… okay.”

Quinn draws a slow breath of relief. Even she’d not trusted the Vastayan woman to trust her. It feels a little like when a fledgeling Valor fell into her life, injured, the way the strength had been sapped away and the understanding that this human intended to help following that left him vulnerable. She’d fed him with spoonfuls of soft ground offal every hour. This is a little different, Quinn admits silently to herself, though the Vastayan woman has a feral, wild eye that catches in sunlight. Talons steady and balance on the ground in the same way Valor’s claws settle on her glove or a perch. She’s both familiar and different at once.

The hand in hers gets placed over Quinn’s shoulders to bear her weight. They don’t have the luxury of going independently, because if they dawdle, Quinn may have to make an arrest. (She’s going to, later, have to follow up. Explaining to someone that she holds rank here isn’t always a quick conversation, and she doesn’t like doing such things in front of survivors to the abuses of her countrymen.)

“I’ve got you. We have to go quicker than you can probably manage, unfortunately, so just mind your footing. You can rest at my campsite.” With this, she sets off towards the tree line.

A shadow of movement catches the origami’s vision.  Silent alerts rousing awareness to the fact she was suddenly in great danger.  The origami was darting down now as events began to unfold.  Desperate to aid somehow.

Something was creeping up behind Jez, lunging, forcing the small assassin to turn just in time to feel her body hit the ground.  But she’s not turned away from Quinn.  The bone mask rested upon her upper visage stares with black pits for eye sockets.  Human lips beyond its position have turned into a gritted snarl at being attacked.

The rope had gotten around one of her wrists thanks to the unpredictable situation.  But her other - the one with the dagger, was swift to try and push up towards the woman’s throat while a knee attempted to keep itself between her would-be attacker, and Jezebel.  Even if it had managed to reach her throat, it does not move to cut.  It holds position, ready to act should Jezebel be forced to defend herself.

“Get off me!”  Her accent was distinctly Noxian.  Upper class.  Something one might find among Nobles, yet there’s something muddied about it as well.  All the while the small paper form of her ally would make an effort to ram its body rather pitifully against Quinn’s back.  It did basically nothing.  But there was definite concern in the creature’s motions.  Fear that this woman would cause great harm to Jezebel.

The origami crane was like a large bug slapping itself against a lantern.  It did nothing even as it shifted to try and throw itself at the woman’s head a few times.

Quinn realizes too late that her hands had missed their marks, and her heart skips a beat in her chest. The second thing she gathers is the distinctly Noxian accent in the voice that reacts to her. Her grip tightens around the wrist she’s taken hold of, and twists.

“No,” she replies, tone firm. “You’re in my campsite. You’ll answer to me, Noxian. Who are you? A spy? Warmason?” She tenses, yet still, as she feels the poke at her back. 

When she turns, she sees nothing there, and Valor doesn’t alert her to anything of danger in forest around her unseen. Probably just an insect then, or an errant leaf, but the ranger-knight is on high alert, and is pressing forward into her camp. With the small cleared space, she can see the intruder a little better, and twisted wrist in hand, she pulls off the mask, which she tosses to the side, into her pile of things. She commits the features to her memory: something she’ll draw from later and take note of within her archives and missives to the Prince and others, the people who should know of the dangers within their kingdom’s borders. 

“You have one chance to speak candidly. Make it quick. Maybe I’ll spare some mercy for you.” She gives a slight shove, and Valor lands heavily, casting an ominous shadow over the camp in the low light. “Depends on how honest you are. How much I trust your word. So, start talking. If you run, you’ll be put down.”  

She reaches to her boot, pulls out her own knife, and gives a slight gesture up to the bird.