#notoriousness

THE ROOM WAS FILLED with a heavy smell of wax. The arrangement of tall candles on the bureau resembled a crumbling castle, with drips staining a pathway to the room's entrance. Soot had seeped into the fabrics, staining scattered papers & hanged coats alike. There was stuff on the floor. A helping of medication upon a silver serving tray, cleaning supplies and a half empty glass of water; fresh bandages in the case of emergency leaking and a few scraps of stained ones from his nightly change. Folded neatly on a nearby stool; a change of clean clothes, iron-pressed yet soiled with the stench.

Everything was painted with warm candlelight; down to every nook & cranny of his bookshelves, where novels and maps alike collected dust. The window towering over his bed, his only passageway into the outside world ever since his return from the First Lands, confessed that it was a dreary night outside. But even Prime's stench felt liberating from the dread that had settled in his bedroom.

Thick lashes fluttered between each languid blink. His chest heaved slowly under the bandages. A dent in the mattress would confess his rigidity; his perpetual struggle to avoid the faintest motion lest the bandages moisten with discomforting pus. Through heavy lids, cerulean eyes fixed on the ceiling, murky with exhaustion. Disheveled hair framed a pallid mien; the light did him no favors, illuminating the darkness that pooled in his eye sockets and the smears of blushed skin that marked his pale skin. Still & silent; it was a wonder the dieners had not come to collect him yet.

Alas, he was fading into sleep. Succumbing to the fatigue, overtaken by a pleasant numbness that had his limbs feel like lead, sinking deeper into the sweat stains on his mattress. But then, a crackling sound summoned his attention to the ceiling. Trepidation forced his eyes a little wider. Pupils slipped to the corner of his vision, neck unmoving from his self-imposed prison. Through flared nostrils he rasped a strained hum when some shredded tendon complained. He stared longingly at the candle flame shooting straight from its wick. It trembled as if swayed by an unfelt breeze. Instantaneously his vision snapped to his left side; to the window.

It was shut.

Even through thick locks, the hair on his nape stood on edge. In spite of his own volition, he shivered. And so pain toiled a path up his left side, where the severed limb was still quivering with grief and infestation. He breathed through his bottom teeth, cracked lips parting. For as parched as he was, in that moment all was forgotten.

Naught remained by the blazing embers of a three eyed glare, observing his struggle quietly from the windowsill.

The candlelight's reflection was wasted on its glossy plummage. It seemed to blend perfectly into the dim moonlight outside, instead. Its head tilted abruptly, like an erratic puppet in the hands of a clumsy pupeteer. They locked eyes for a good minute, in a pregnant pause. Jericho's jaw clenched. In a desperate attempt to escape the inevitable, he shut his eyes tightly. But the all encompassing darkness was twice as unnerving. A final, desperate glance at the candles, and he turned towards it once more.

Still there, oogling him from the windowsill. But this time he decided to stare back. And the longer he examined its peculiar features, the more curiosity eased him into the tension. Through the wood, he could hear the scratch of its talons. It had burrowed in the walls. Suddenly, he identified the sound that kept him awake at nights; a sudden pitter-patter, like rats crawled under the boards and were scratching their way out. A steadying breath was drawn, then.

"Do you have bad blood with me, ranger? Beyond the matters of different states, I cannot imagine you could have... personal grievances with me."

"Not with you per se, no. I do have grievance with your adopted protégé, but that's another issue entirely. No with you, it's what you have to represent, not necessarily who you are. Assassins are practically in my job description of who to hunt down, and you're the worst of them. Not in that you're bad at your job of course, quite the opposite. You might almost be as good as me at it." There was a confident smirk about her as she spoke.

HIS BREATH FELL HEAVY on the back of a sore palm; knuckles white from the pressure, skin flushed with the thrill. As ephemeral as they were, those brief sessions often reignited a taste of his own rusted menace. A frugal emulation of that very special rush found only under clashing blades. Tongue wet parted lips as his heart fell into place. Instantaneously, he heaved upright.

Keen eyes observed the strain permeate his companion and wash off of him like a crashing wave when their blades faced down. Unlike himself, however, Marcus seemed far from tranquil. Agitated, holding back; simmering. His brow twiched before the sight, watching him skeptically. A sole step back was taken, instinctively maybe, when the edge was swung around in the way a cat might sway its tail with frustration. Albeit the display drawing some initial reluctance, Jericho recuperated quickly and stood his ground - planting his bum leg in freshly stirred soil.

"It is what must be done. And I have known you to be a man of great patience." Such austerity in his cadence, it drowned whatever semblance of flattery one may have perceived. His blade pointed to Marcus' nose then, as one may point a finger. It was a safe distance, but a breach of their implied time-out nevertheless.

"Do not act with me as if you have no concept of what we're up against. I will admit, I was reckless in my interactions with him before. But you know I cannot afford another incomplete seance." He paused, belatedly realizing how accusatory his tone had grown. But there was purpose in it, too. They would both need to let some steam off. When Jericho spoke again, he was more composed; more pointed.

"I am in need of his service; and I have put up with worse characters." Lips creased with the impression of a smile at that, albeit never breaking eye contact. He took a blunt step forth with an arched brow; until his blade found the flat side of Marcus' own and begun to slide against it. Slowly. Almost sensually, until they would be joined, crossed.

On a good day, his sword may have drawn a sweatbead or two from the blademaster. He knew well that his was an empty threat; an insolent one nonetheless. And yet he stepped forth with the confidence of a misguided man, his smirk baiting Marcus into chancing that first blow. Even the way his gaze softened, allowing a glimpse of faded ceruleans to peer through the shroud of demonic vision, was fuel to the flame. He braced for the consequences of his words even as he was uttering them, boldly, in their mother-tongue; audaciously.

A SOLE BEAM of sunlight pierced through crystal; the rounded pendulum held between his talons shred it into a million different colors. They spilled on a decrepit carpet, doing little to bring life to its dulled crimson. Yet, the glimmer had attracted a beloved pet, much to its caregiver's content. Jericho watched it inch closer across the windowsill, reminding him of simpler times; when he could truly look upon the creature as naught more than a curious animal. Even now, his mundane tenderness romanticized the scene, to his regret.

"When faced with a well-seared fillet..." He begins, musing dryly; " Would you find it any less enticing if you knew the nuances of this particular elmark's life?" The raven's beak pecked curiously at the object, careful around pale fingers. Three blazing eyes inspect their reflection; a myriad looking back at them as the crystal shatters it to infinity. Jericho smiled, tenderly.

"No. And so, a creature such as this... has no interest nor capacity to comprehend the complexities of human histories." He allowed the object to roll into his palm, inviting the bird to climb upon his forearm. Brows furrowed then, and a shadow crossed his fingers, accompanying the change of topic. He looked to the window, its light a short-lived break from the impending darkness shrouding the Bastion's spiralling stairways. Although he enjoyed those little pauses between ascending ( a chance to catch his weary breath ) there was always a feeling of dread that came with them; a voice telling him not to settle too long, lest he rests; lest he allows his guard to melt away in a much needed slumber.

He can still vividly bring to mind the last time he had felt such a thing; the head of red walking away from his seated form, the way his heart clenched almost as if it, too, whispered of a hunch. Albeit never carrying an drop of magic in his blood, his intuition had always been strong. If only he had listened to it that night... things would be so very different now, he wagers. So many 'what-if's hid behind those tired green eyes. Almost as many as the colors in this ornament's reflection. Jericho's eyes narrowed at that thought. His palm closed abruptly, beckoning the raven to squawk and flutter away with indignation.

It was supposed to be perfect.

Until just one night ago, Soreana's, and by extension the Black Rose's plan, seemed irreproachable. The tyrant would be removed by none other than his former ally, the Du Couteau patriarch, her husband. At this time yesterday, Soreana was already making plans for the future. She dreamt of elevating the Du Couteaus to their rightful place in the empire—at the stone table where its fate was decided quarterly. At last, they would have influence. At last, she could hope to stand up to the Pale Lady and perhaps even usurp her, in time.

Katarina had not been a part of the plan. Soreana tried to chisel her into shape for years but she was made of sturdier stuff than her tools could handle. Therefore, her education became Marcus' responsibility. His chisel was sharper, his methods crueler, and he left many scars. Soreana was disappointed but not surprised to learn Katarina had stopped following orders.

Therein lay Soreana's greatest mistake: she cast Katarina aside. 

There was no time for course correction. The die had been cast.

Soreana was attending a local art exhibition, with orders not to leave unless so told. She was a patron, so her presence was expected. More importantly, the gallery sat atop a less-known entrance into the catacombs that webbed the capital's underside.

She was inspecting the paintings for perhaps the millionth time when her stomach dropped. The simple natural act of breathing became a struggle, so she slid onto an easy chair with help from her retainer. She knew well the chills that forewarned her melancholies, but this was different. As the tightness subsided and her breathing evened out, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around, somewhat dazed, and eyed the masked figure anxiously.

—

Soreana received orders to access a smoke shop just off the edge of the Mortoraa. It was a popular hangout spot for the city's elite and a discreet enough safehouse for the Rose. Its chief usefulness came from the herbal mixtures that the patrons regularly smoked. They could mask even the foulest of smells.

Fearing another fainting spell, Soreana ordered her retainer, Nunzio, to follow. His appearance was forgettable; it was for this reason that Soreana hired him in the first place. He was slightly shorter than her, fat, and wore plain black manservant's clothes and a worn trilby in the same color. He held up a torch as they navigated the catacombs, scrutinizing their tenebrous expanse with beady downward-sloping eyes set into a round face, his twitching lips canopied by a bushy mustache. He was visibly relieved when they arrived at the exit to the smoke shop.

Once inside the establishment, Soreana took all of two seconds to accommodate to their new surroundings before stomping off like a woman possessed. She was pointed in a direction without as much as a single word. She was already expecting the worst, or rather, the worst she could think of. None of the scenarios she made up in her mind could measure up to the horror that she was about to witness.

The stench lingering about the area was an assault on the senses. She swung open the double doors, her eyes falling upon the figures at the center of the room. She recognized only one, and so took a few steps closer, inquiring about the other's identity. No sooner had the words left her lips that she recognized the man, disfigured though he was.

Distantly, Soreana heard a sharp cry, like a wounded animal. It might've even been her own mouth that produced it. 

Someone eased her into the chair beside; it might've been Nunzio, or the woman, or someone else entirely. She couldn't have known, not for the way her consciousness had lifted itself out of her body momentarily. 

She stared at her husband's corpse for what felt like ages. It was grace to the emeralds, bright still though dead he indeed was, that she even identified him. His face was barely recognizable; it must have borne the brunt of the impact. In the back of her mind crept the suggestion that perhaps she shouldn't stare too long lest this battered and bloodied face become the centerpiece of her nightmares.

Soreana stood up from the chair, swallowing down the bile that had risen in her throat.

"Marcus, are you in there? Can you hear me?" she whispered, as though he would crumble if she raised her voice. This time to the noblewoman next to him; "Is he in there?"

Soreana's hands came up to hang in the air between them, frozen in uncertainty. Her eyes, wild and red-lined, never left his face.

/ @notoriousness :]

TALONS TRACED THE OUTLINE of a faint mark crossing his jaw. Consciousness swimming, Jericho's heavy eyelids confessed that he was in and out of sleep in the aftermath of some unfinished conversation. A mere pause had sufficed to have him surrender to the tranquility of the bedchamber, lulled by the rhythmic heave & fall of his beloved's chest. An abrupt inhale betrayed him when Marcus decided to break the silence and lure him back out of his drowsy state.

Unblinking, his gaze settled on the reflection of deep crimson strands. He twirled one around his claw, then allowed it to fall back into place. Such striking juxtaposition in their color pallettes yet the indellible mark of blue-blooded heritage was imprinted on them both. In spite of his years in the trenches, Marcus was still softer than most souls he'd bedded in his lifetime. His skin felt like paper under that taloned grip; like he could pierce him any second now. Or tear him to shreds.

The question beckoned a pointed effort to avoid the latter. Sheldom would he revisit memories of those times by his own vollition; and upon anyone else's request, he would have avoided it still. But to be asked that whilst lying beside a man was a move of utmost insolence; and a part of him wanted to scold Marcus for it. Eyes offered a languid turn before he rolled away, on his back. The stump of his arm, adorned with various sigils, was squeezed under Marcus' own; a point of contact that retained some warmth between them, even if Jericho's skin visibly experienced a chill at their parting.

"And would anyone have taken my word seriously after that return, you think?" His gaze, albeit slightly scornful, quickly withdrew to the ceiling whereupon it swam amidst the crimson drapes decorating his canopy. "They all thought me mad, Marcus. And I do not blame them for it; I thought myself mad, for a time."

Slowly, a tingling crawled up his spine, urging him to escape the supine position. A negative association. He drew some of the covers with him as he withdrew to the edge of the bed, back turned on his companion. Long silvery locks concealed the top of his spine, but not a single tangle would be spotted on their length.

"Your care for me during that difficult time..." He mused, drowsily. Emotion contained in his gravitas. "...It was important. I could not afford to lose that. To lose you." A bitter smile settled in his features, only to disappear when he caught glimpse of the bird perched on the windowsill. The drapes were drawn, allowing a view of the dormant city beneath. But the ravens' eyes never sleep. Jericho's own mirrored the erratic twitch of their gaze as his brows creased pensively.

"...Marcus?" His trailed off, his soft tone alarming in the complete silence that reigned over the room. Sat still, facing away; he appeared rigid. The bird croaked. Or was it Jericho croaking? His hunched back would never confess.

PALE SKIN TRANSLUSCENT UNDER THE LIGHT; one could clearly witness the thick ball of spit rolling down his throat. Each iodine-laden breath left him sinking deeper into the stone chair's arch, pressing into Noxian granite as if hoping to draw from its sturdiness. But no matter how he'd shift, it was uncomfortable; no, discomforting. And the audible sniffling behind his ear hardly helped with the situation.

"Do not make this awkward."

His voice rung empty in the cavernous room; one of many ample ritual chambers in the Bastion's depths. The walls towering around them almost seemed endless thanks to large windows at the very top. Rays of dim sunlight reflected a halo around Jericho's crown, where an inkling of sweatbeads had formed shortly after he was strapped to this damned torture device once more.

To the magically inept, it was no more than a black chair with fancy carvings on its side. To those in possession of unfortunate knowledge, however, runes warned of the fates sealed upon its granite seat. A method of magical permeation dating back to the Tyrant's reign. Among other indecipherable designs, the etched outline of a rose stood out, aligned with the center of one's back. Jericho could swear he had felt fingertips tracing his bare skin over that spot when he first sat, as if welcoming him back to the treacherous procedure. Yes, he had earned his access to that room. But the device's owners remained vigilant; and he would be foolish to think their endeavors would go by unnoticed.

A subtle twist of his forearm tested the cuff strapped to his wrist, trepidation crossing his features. Dark eyes sought solace in the shadow of his beloved lurking watchfully at the edge of the room ( his only lifeline & protection from the virtuoso's mercurial whims ) traversing past the thick dune of raw salt. A protective circle; to the onlooker. For him and his Ionian conspirator, it felt like more of a trap. Pupils dilated as he peered through the corner of his eye, at Jhin making the final adjustments to his bindings. He seemed awfully at ease with the procedure. It was... concerning. Jericho's eyes tracked his movement, circling him like a vulture.

"And stop it with the noises." He added scornfully, agitation all the more evident in the stiffness of his core. Comical relief concealed how each muscle fiber twitched visceral tension beneath his skin; the body remembers. But these walls remember too. The spillage of blood in the Immortal Bastion is always commemorated. Jericho was fortunate; in that neither of his comrades at that time were truly aware of how many eyes would be on them once the ceremonial knife tasted that first crimson drop.

With a lax exhale, Swain's vision trailed down the path of his own exposed thigh. His decencycovered by a rug ( moreso to evade the oogling of one Khada Jhin, whose depravity was reknowned by that point ) exposed skin spoke of the rituals past; charred, scalded & hacked, his body was far from pristine. Apart from the natural loosening of his skin due to weathering, there was an array of bruises complimenting the distinct sigils carved into his flesh. Most littered his upper torso, surrounding the remaining stump of his severed arm. The work continued down his left half, fading near his groin only to continue on the opposite side & stop abruptly over his crippled knee; the joint of which had been visibly thwarted from fusing properly into place. A line drawn down too far spoke of a job left unfinished.

Jericho's brows creased with the reminder. He peered at the virtuoso again, this time thoughtfully so. Would he survive it, or meet the fate of his predecessor?

"Enough with the bindings. They are secure enough, for that I am certain. Light the incense."