#getbustershot

Aatrox’s footfall was heavy as he strode across the wet leaves and loose soil that covered the forest floor, his march grim and filled with purpose. Ever forward he walked, from one battle to the next, seeking flesh and blood with which to sustain himself, his eyes scanning his surroundings for some trace of humanity. As he walked, though, Aatrox noted something lingering in the air; something... Magical.

The Darkin stopped, and began to inspect his surroundings. He could feel someone watching him, but from where...?

Rumble couldn’t help but flinch as soon as the rag touched his nose, ears dropping with a somewhat annoyed grunt the only answer letting her know he wouldn’t complain. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t stop anyways.

“Hey- it’s not like I go looking for fights!” Well, he wasn’t exactly wrong, fighting was far from his specialty- he just so happened to lose his temper at the wrong time and place more often than what could be considered safe for someone his size. As he already mentioned, no big deal, right?

On the bright side, at least Tristana cared, someone he very much needed with so many who hated his guts- not like he would ever admit it though. He refused to let anything or anyone put him down, even if it meant having to endure a few hits.

First Impressions || Accepting

Hecarim scoffed, whisps of spectral fire fluttering harmlessly in front of him. A yordle, with a gun. A true mockery of the art of Archery. Perhaps he would take this one more seriously if they wielded an actual weapon of old, a true weapon of war, one that required true proficiency and precision.

For any person could use a gun. Even beings as physically unthreatening as a yordle.

Without this weapon of the weak, she would be nothing. A false warrior deserving not the glory of fighting him at his most serious. Oh no.

The only death this one deserved was a swift, satisfying, kick in the head with one of his hoofs.

"You can be Tiny. Tiny was the name of a stray cat I kinda liked."

@getbustershot | Sentence starters

By someone else’s definition? A bloody nose likely didn’t count as alright. By his own definition? Nothing he couldn’t handle. He has gone through way worse anyways.

“I’m fine.” Hastily wiping away the blood with his hand, he turned away from her, almost trying to hide the injury- as useless as that was. He wasn’t a weak little runt anymore, he should be able to defend himself now, right? Apparently not, considering how his last argument went; admitting it and asking for help would be an even bigger blow to his pride though.