#justicewinged

"You don't need to lecture me on what happened, Renzus. You don't need to tell me the injustices of my people, my country, or the Mageseekers. You know my opinion and you know just as well how much I disagree with their practices."

The petricite here is intense, more intense than it is in the rest of the city, a soft ringing in her ears but little more. In the city's plazas and buildings, she doesn't feel nearly so trapped. Perhaps once, she might have told him how he wasn't alone in the way it hurt, because this visit will give her a headache for hours thereafter. Perhaps once, he'd told her there's more magic in Demacian citizens than they'd ever really known, and she'd agreed, but this situation was beyond her, and plucks at rage in her heart in a discordant tune.

She reaches to her belt and pulls out the keys to grant her entry to his cell, presses inside, and locks it behind her.

The closeness immediately allows her a vent for that simmering anger to show. She shoves him away from from the bars with a gentle strike to the very shoulder she'd injured in the wake of his murders, not knowing if the betrayal of hurting him once would hurt more or the injury itself. The petricite slows his healing, makes him weaker; she recognizes this. Then, using this same leverage, she pushes him to the ground, and far more reminiscent of all the times she'd saved his life before, she checks every wound on his body, careful and silent. It takes a long moment before she speaks again, and as she does, she's applying a stinging poultice to the smaller wounds which remain, something she'd very much done before to speed healing and ward off infection in the field.

"You know, I trusted you. I trusted you to not interfere, to not meddle in affairs like this." Venom laces her tone. "I thought you agreed: Sylas's uprising is not the right path. I thought you'd separated yourself from your Noxian heritage."

The ranger-knight leans in, holding a dangerous gleam in her golden hazel eyes. "I thought you above Noxian justice, Renzus. I thought you were to remain impartial. Part and parcel of that is letting things fucking happen. Yes. You were supposed to do nothing! You were supposed to report that back to me. Their oversight can't be properly punished now, and things will only get worse! How do you not see that whether you killed with blade or magic matters not? When you're brought before our tribunal, your actions literally reflect on all of your kind."

She doesn't normally talk like that. The way those words slipped from her lips brings her pause, and she retreats the slightest bit, a furrow in her brow only intensifying the sharpness in her gaze. Her tone softens, if only slightly. "I could have used this to show the Mageseekers have been going after innocents. I could have used this to make things better, but now I have to worry about ensuring you won't be literally executed for this.

"Do you have a death wish? Because this display is showing me you do."

She was, as always, right. He knew it, and it stayed in his mind even when the pain of her treatment lanced through his flesh, setting frayed nerves aflame. He should have kept her in mind, when he tore through those men in a haze of anger and pain. He doesn’t struggle, merely wincing, grunting in pain, letting her lecture him without complaint. He deserves it, after all.

He knows he deserves so much more.

“Maybe I do.” Renzus whispered, partially to himself. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the cold stone floor, the one part of the room that held blessed silence when he touched it instead of the insistent buzz of petricite. “Maybe I’m just tired of Runeterra constantly sliding towards oblivion, despite everything I’ve done. Maybe I’ve forgotten what it’s like to look towards tomorrow and have faith that there’ll be a sunrise.”

When he opened his eyes again, his vision was blurred, emotions overrunning despite himself. “I’m sorry, Quinn. It was a moment of weakness. I couldn’t hold back. It’s just...I spoke to them, Quinn. I asked for their names. I asked for an explanation. All I got back was unrepentant spite.”

He choked, briefly, before continuing, taking the moment to swallow back his pain and regain some semblance of composure. At least, however much composure he could muster while still firmly pinned to the floor by the Ranger-Knight.

@justicewinged​ said:  ❝ You don’t look like a monster. ❞   (  crooked kingdom starters.  )

     ❝ yeah? maybe looks can be deceiving. ❞ She’s trying not to sneer, but she can’t help it. She’s always inclined to be on edge around Demacians, no matter how well-meaning they may seem. Even in Ionia there are humans who act friendly or sympathetic and then turn around and try to catch and sell you. 

     Demacia’s often worse—there’s not even an honest motive there, like greed. Just hatred. Hatred kills. Greed is why she’s sitting where she is right now, in the back of a poacher’s cart bound for inland, not well, but at least alive. She takes a step forward and puts her fingers through the mesh of the cage.

Standing vigilant, the blankness of white hid the beginning of the land and sky around them. White flecks juxtapose the black armour as it would the black stones that protruded about them. The Demacian's stirring unsettled the thin blanket that had formed, and has the Draklorn break their stalwart position. Her fighting spirit was admirable, though completely foolish considering the situation. Although curiosity stirs at the peculiar, small mechanised bow she pointed at them now, very little emotion is communicated with the dark helm by itself. Even with her unfocused aim, the Freljordian respects the weapon - if only because they don't know how it worked yet. "Because you are more likely to hurt yourself further." Their heavy accent licks at the answer they growled out. Southern scouts were a rare find indeed, but still a threat. She had already seen too much by stirring, but perhaps this was a chance for more than spilling foreign blood.

The dark metal greatsword resting in their grip is raised from the snow to rest upon a pauldron, as their other hand got to work freeing a shaggy fur from their form. "And I am the only way you will ever see the Dag Stjern rise again." Chin held proudly, the Frostguard takes one step closer to the ranger, the fur hanging from their grip in an offering, although they were far too out of reach.

“No one wants to hear shit about Demacia. Either die or move on already! Or—we can talk about me, instead.”

“That’s not an issue,” Quinn replies, casting the Noxian a fierce look. “I can take what I dish out, Noxian dog. Can you do the same?”

She gives a beat of pause. The soft sounds of a single cockle bell in the trees betray that a certain eagle is nearby, and likely not afraid to attack with a single command.

“I know you aren’t guilty. Don’t make me regret working to clear your name, and we’ll be golden. Just don’t bite the hand that feeds you and you won’t hang, because our people need to blame someone for our dear king’s death… and believe me, you are quite convenient.”

There is silence to her question to begin; with only narrowed eyes and a slight cant to their head as an immediate answer. Their piercing gaze never leaves her visage, even when their enemy’s partner reveals itself. Even after her explanation, the assassin’s guard is kept up. Shoulders hunched over themselves, keeping to the shadows of their own creation; trying to hide from her golden gaze.

Taking a seat next to the ranger-knight, he reaches into a pouch and takes out a piece of jerky, casually offering it to the other.