#hubrisi

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“ 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐀 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍, 𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐈𝐍? ” her voice is high and sweet, revealing nothing of her own thoughts, her own feelings about the subject. she doesn't answer, at least not in the manner he wants; no, instead she turns the question back on him. “ i think what you think matters far more than what i think. ”

          [ you already know what he thinks, after all. if he thought himself a good person, he would hardly need to ask. ]

          she turns her cornflower-blue gaze up to the stained glass of the cathedral, where the early morning sunlight dances in patchwork colors before cascading over the stone floor. the towering image of saint seiros diffuses across his face in splotches of green and gold, softly haloed against russet waves; on impulse, she reaches out and brushes away the curtain of auburn strands away from where they hang against his forehead, as much to get a better look at his eyes as it is for the contact.

          something glints, metallic, in the sunlight at his feet — a shield, in a familiar, softly glowing gold — and at once the pieces snap into place. her hand falls to his shoulder and gives a firm, gentle squeeze before sliding into the pew beside him.

          “ do you think i’m a bad person? ” she asks. she turns forward, staring at the crumbling, ruined pulpit, before tipping her head onto his shoulder. “ they were my friends, too. i fought them, just like you did. if you’re a bad person, then that makes me one, too. ”

          she closes her eyes, and for a long moment, she’s silent, the only sound in the cathedral the syncopated sound of their breathing. she thinks of annie, and at once feels selfish; how can she think of herself at a time like this?

          [ why should you be spared, after all? he has buried two of his oldest friends, and will likely bury another soon. why should you be granted mercy when he will not? ]

          “ it seems like only yesterday we were all here together, ” she whispers, voice thick. “ we never could get felix to sing the hymns, could we? ” 

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The Voidborn is… Curious about him. Slowly tilting her head, she couldn’t lie she found his beauty… So mysterious and ethereal?

«There’s… Something peculiar about you. Your eyes are… Mesmerizing to say the least. I believe a solid 9 would perfectly suit y-»

The first thing Deirdre sees when she opens her eyes is her beloved, his brow creased with worry. She smiles. She does not like to see him fret in such a way but to know that he is there when she wakes will always bring a smile to her face. She reaches to touch his face and soothe the worry lines away but instead winces in pain.

As soon as she lifts her arm, she begins to remember what happened. There had been a battle. She rushed to his side to provide healing aid but had not paid enough attention to her own safety. There was an enemy cavalier that hit her in the shoulder. She cannot remember much else--she must have been knocked out. But it certainly explains the pain now searing through her arm.

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[Tyrian]  

⬇️🔞

𝖉𝖎𝖉 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖘 𝖒𝖊, 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖞 𝖘𝖆𝖞; their voice, low and serene, seems almost comical with their wild, jewel-green hair stll dripping wet with river water. [ it’s been five years since you’ve heard that voice, but they sound exactly as you remember. but then, how could you forget when you hear that voice whispering in your every dream? ] she's unsure if she's meant to laugh –– they've never been good at modulating between sincerity and levity –– but a brittle, mirthless laugh, like broken glass, escapes her lips all the same.

          she flings her arms around them like she's done so many times before –– exactly like this, each and every time –– as if she cannot accept it until she feels the warm, solid weight of them beneath her fingers. she once worried that they hadn't survived; now, instead, she worries that they might greet her with sword drawn.

          [ did you miss me, they say, and you know they mean far more than these last five years. you memories are hazy, little more than a blur, but you remember them standing opposite you, holding a blade forged with the bones of a goddess, the sorrow on claude's face, your stepbrother's outstretched hand. it's a strange sensation, to remember your own death. yet both of you had died and been reborn long before you ever met, hadn't you? ]

          " you came back to me, " she says, instead of answering the question. " i had feared–– " she doesn't finish, cutting herself off with a sigh, with the shake of her head. " ––but you're here. i'm glad. "

          she reaches to brush leather-clad fingertips through damp fringe, an action just this side of too tender for what they're meant to be to each other now. the words stick in her throat for a moment [ you're so afraid the answer might be something you can't give ] before she asks, " what can i do to make you stay? "

"how quaint of you to side with the living when you hardly qualify among their ranks," the ruined king clicks his tongue, sickly green gaze upon the harponeer as the mist half-obfuscates his figure, wraith-like form more mist than person. "when they come for you next, ripper, you will have nowhere to go." ||

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«Hmm... Yer speaking too much for someone who's going to have a sharp and rusty harpoon right in their belly.»

Viego.

One of the first names on his List. Even after what Pyke and his "temporary crew" did to him, he still had the caustic audacity to show up and reek of arrogance. Even the mere sight of that vile madman would have made his blood boil, if he still had any through his veins. The same man who almost ended Runeterra's life for his mere, selfish whims regarding his tainted love. A wasted bait, really. Not even the Swimming City wanted him among its inhabitants.

«Heh. Ain't following the living, Viego. The only ones I'm following are my superiors under the sea, my blade and my List... And they all want ye dead.»

He then took a heavy step, his azure eyes ghostly glowing as he thighly held his harpoon, his body tense and ready to strike the Ruined King at any time. He was immortal, like himself. But, he couldn't care less. He was willing to dismember his ghostly figure over and over. Then, a chuckle from the Buhru, the King's attempt to belittle him sounded so funny, childish. Didn't he remember he was totally unaffected by his corrupted Mist?