a weapon or a girl ?

i suppose i will have to start thinking about.... how ori ties into the arc.ane verse and her timeline and such for it.

spoilers under cut

Funny. Perhaps they had passed each other without noticing. Then again, this seemed rather likely. Jayce had probably passed her on any number of occasions, given the history he know about her. While much of that information wasn’t well-told, Jayce could imagine that Orianna had been around much without Jayce ever realizing the mechanical form in front of him was someone that he had seen in the flesh many moons ago. Perhaps it was a little poetic this way, to continue this dance of narrowly missing each other’s presence.

The inventor comes to his senses, bothered that she had caught onto his troubles. Worries were quite difficult to hide, creased brow as he was deep in thought quite a giveaway. “Nothin’. Just a lot on my mind. It’s nice to see you’ve still got some hobbies.” Truly, not that much different than most people here. He wonders if they were instilled in her, by some sort of artificial intelligence, given their commonality within Piltovan society.

“What kind of explorations? Have you gotten into trouble with that blonde idiot? Wouldn’t surprise me.” He cracks as best a reassuring smile as he can. Nope, still awkward about the whole thing, but at least there was a bit of insight in her answers that made for a strong fascination from the inventor.

    blonde idiot. a number of faces pass through her memory before she settles on one that seems to fit: " do you mean ezreal? " she is certain she has heard him mention jayce, and ezreal has always struck her as popular and well regarded, enough so to know most people of any social standing.

    " yes. i suppose we have gotten into some trouble. but it is all - quite fun. i have told ezreal i wish to go - with him - on his next - adventure. "

    away from piltover. away from a city of steel and iron and off to lands of sand and marble and snow. new places, the kind told about in theater and read about in books.

THE BLOOD NEED NOT DRY,   just as the flower need not rush in its silent surrender where it blooms a thousand,  thousand colours.  all flecked and spotty,  blurring between tones until no clear distinction can be made.  he always preferred the obscure,  the unknowable.  that which is so very macabre yet undeniable in its allure.  perhaps that is why their meetings were seemingly spun by a strange force,  or by the maestro himself.  strange,  some threads are invisible even to him.  

just before he turns away she catches him with that question,  not that it surprises him.  the sharp slope of said mask catches the light again,  while the maroon belie of his eye falls upon her like a hawk.   ❝  i have many faces. ❞   murmured after a beat,  repeated much like a mantra.  ❝  as we all do,  my dear.  what is one to the next ?  whatever could we achieve without them ?  ❞

with that he continued onwards,  not even giving her a chance to answer,  though fully expectant of her to flutter on behind him.  the sharp click of each heel resonated deeply in the very underbelly of this auditorium.   

    he speaks in poetry, in rhetoric and metaphors, providing no answers but further questions orianna had not considered. she traces her fingers against her face, finding the seam where metal plates are carefully welded together. the ball hums beside her.

    " that is not — " she follows after, creating an echo behind each of his steps. he seems set to end the conversation there and orianna considers his words. she is certain she has one face, and it is her face, the only one she has known. but maybe she is trying to put it behind masks, trying to blend into the places she no longer belongs. she knows, too well, her smile is never right.

✤     ✤    ✤

    the forests in ionia are nothing like she has ever seen. there is no picturebook or fairy tale that captures their grandeur. they tower, trunks curved and arching in fantastical ways, leaves painted in colors she has only found in the terrarium. she can make out shadows and small movements within the branches, swaddled beneath the foliage.

   there is so very much to look at. unlike in piltover or zaun, the forest is a bramble of overlapping parts. she does not know where to look and the ball cannot protect her from it all. if it nudges her away from a looming branch, it knocks her into a jutting root. if it tries to keep her from tripping over a rock, it guides her into trampling over delicate flowers.

   eventually, it stops trying and leaves orianna to her mishaps.

   " yasuo — "

   her head turns and he's already ahead, walking along a bent tree that serves as a bridge to the plateau above. he makes it look easy but when orianna tries, her feet threaten to slip. they cannot bend the way they should and metal leaves them slick and smooth. now the ball helps, nudging her one way then the other to ensure she keeps balance.

  yasuo extends a hand when she nears the top and orianna takes it.

✤     ✤    ✤

    orianna lifts a hand, delicate fingers splaying as she stretches it outward. she looks over the cold metal of her arm, reflections gauzy and distorted and near impossible to make out. she has never imagined people as mirrors. they're strange and complicated, filled to bursting with all matter of difficulties.

✤     ✤    ✤

    it is very difficult to be quiet when one is made of clockwork; parts are always moving and turning and twisting and no matter how quiet the mechanisms, they're never completely silent. the ball, in particular, is always noisy. it whirs, gears turning and scraping, hums in the air, clicks and creaks.

   so approaching someone with the intent of being quiet is near impossible. orianna tries, but the ball is less inclined to match her efforts. she is certain she recognizes this sound. it's uneven and heavy and muffled, provoking memories of her father late at night, shut away within his study.

   she thinks it's crying.

   ( she cannot remember the last time she cried or felt the need to cry. )

   orianna's eyes shine, star-like, in the darkness.

How he wished to ask her how she remembered all this. There were few things that made him uneasy, but once he heard the name of the being keeping him company, a shiver ran down his spine. There was always a strange sense that Jayce should say something to her, about how he had met her so many years ago… They hadn’t developed a friendship, and it had only been in passing, but…

Jayce simply smiles softly, staring at the beautiful scene in front of them. This was normally where he came when he wanted to think about things, and this had been on his mind for quite some time. Many questions popped into his head, and if he were a little younger, blunter, more impulsive, he’d ask those questions, however rude they were. What was it like to become a mechanical being? Does she remember her past? None of those questions would feel appropriate. 

“I’m always here when I’m in need of mental clarity. I didn’t think I’d have a companion today. Not that I don’t welcome the company, if it’s from you. I don’t see you come to this spot often, though. What do you… Ah, like doin’ in your spare time?” He asks it awkwardly. Was that too much of a rude question? He was awful at this.

   she remembers, as he begins to talk, that the polite thing to do is to look at people who are speaking. orianna's head ticks to the side and tips back so she can look up at him. there's a stilted quality to the question; she doesn't miss this detail, but it seems unimportant outside of being there.

    " i come here often. " at least once a week. " i like to watch the sunset. "

   her fingers strum against the bar, tapping out four separate beats, one for each digit.

   " hmm-m-mm. " the sound staggers in her throat. "i watch the theater and read many books. but we also - explore zaun and piltover. there are always - new - things to discover."

   her head turns back to the setting sun, sky opening ever wider as the rising howl ascends. for as massive as it is, it impresses her how quiet its gears and pieces are.

many years ago, a girl became very sick and it was not long until she passed. her father, left alone, was devastated and so he made a puppet in her image. the puppet was so dearly loved that she was given a soul of her own. for a while, the man adored his new found daughter. this wooden girl was so very like his precious orianna, but as time passed, he began to see the faults. try as she might, this orianna was always just a little bit wrong. she did not blink and her movements were always too stiff and she was too eager to always do what he said, and he began to feel as if she did not have a soul at all.

the story goes that he tore her apart in a fit of mourning and shame and heartache. he had tried so hard to replace his old daughter with this thing that was not.

now orianna wanders the spirit world as an akana, desperately trying to figure out what it means to be human even when her time has long since passed. at her side is the ball, a strange spirit that seems to be deeply attached to orianna.

APPEARANCE NOTES

inspired by karakuri & bunraku puppets

white hair, about shoulder length, straight and full. hair is pulled into two loops at the top. blunt cut bangs, eyebrow level. based off this.

black irises. a very empty sort of look to them. eyes have purple shadow at the edges. violet lips.

white skin - like, powder white. ball joints. 

the ball is a glowing orb of white & violet energy, contained within a silver karakusa patterned sphere

✤     ✤    ✤

   orianna frowns or she tries to frown. there's something in the way her head tips just slightly to the side that seems to suggest she's frowning, even if her face doesn't actually seem to, well — change. maybe it's how the ball sinks slightly at her side. its gears whir. it's trying very hard to be sad, or pretend to be sad.

    the sun sets, ribboning the sky in pinks and violets and streaks of orange. orianna makes her way to highest floor of the rising howl, the ball humming at her side. it's a weekly routine, something she has carefully scheduled into day to day life. she knows the exact level of piltover on which to board the conveyor and the exact time to arrive and where the best view of the sky and the harbor and all of the city is to be found. it's clockwork.

    the rising howl is dotted with people. most of them look at their books or their newspapers or even their watches, but very few ever bother to look out the window. and most of them tend to avoid the eastern side, where the last of the sun's light gleams brightest, bathing the cold metal in warm yellows.

    a person is at the window. orianna stops beside him. she presses her hands to the conveyor's railing, rising to the tips of her toes to peer out. the ball settles itself between her and the man, hugging close to orianna's side.