#rvdemption

     “Be sure you are looking at me, and not just my mask.”

     Neither of them backed away when the music slowed down. Caitlyn had caught herself nodding at her partner’s refined moves once or twice, and perhaps she had spent too much time mulling over their identity in her head when the next song came up. She shares a smile with the other woman, although she has not put in enough effort in her fabricated joy, nor sufficient sway in her mask of confidence. 

     She fights back the urge to huff. Even with at least a three inch difference in heels, she still has to look up to meet the other’s gaze. Hands interlace with each other, and Caitlyn’s free hand snakes around her waist.

     Demacian, if not Noxian. The heirs of all the low Houses don’t act this well, and the higher-ups wouldn’t even attend.

     Caitlyn inches closer, obscuring the other’s sight as her head nears the other’s shoulder. Enough looking for you, madam.

res ipsa loquitur // accepting

➶: Opinion on killing

Stiffness overcomes shoulders, jaw setting in a hard line that follows the stance that so naturally clicks into that of a soldier. Irelia has known killing, she has known senseless killing and necessary killing alike. She has suffered it, in a way.  

“Killing is...” She pauses, eyes glancing to one side, averted. “...A necessary evil. But to do so should not be taken lightly. Life is a precious gift, it shouldn’t be thrown away like it is nothing.” 

Childlike glee, though far from her countenance when her surroundings are glacial and white, is easy here in Demacia, especially today. It feels like years though it has been the usual few months since she saw Fiora last, and frankly the carriage ride feels as though it couldn’t take any longer. Were she not still coherent enough for propriety, she might have badgered the driver with a chorus of are we there yet and how much further. 

It doesn’t matter when she sees Fiora, standing by the gate to her home. She hops out of the carriage too quickly for the driver to even open her door, all but skipping into Fiora’s arms. 

     Delicious irony. A slap in the face to a country that wounded her, a slice through the heart of a deplorable ideology. It’s a bold move, the Nightraven taking those words as her own motto.

     “Careful now,” Irelia quips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d grown chivalrous on me.”

     The blood of the deceased still freshly coats the air. Her blades make off to dip themselves in water. She lets them, intending to work on them thoroughly herself later. Irelia inhales the scent, wondering how to place it. What it lacks in fragrance, it makes up for an undeniable prominence in satisfaction. The finality of retribution energizes her veins.

ship opinions

           Finally! A foreign custom he didn’t have to study. The well-practiced greeting is returned with grace and a light laugh. He tips his hat, and he doesn’t bother hiding the grin on his face. Fiora was always someone he enjoyed, even if for menial reasons – it was nice to have someone to speak a new language with.

          “Same to you.” He says. “How’ve you been, chère muguet?”

Her voice broke through the ambient sounds of the pristine streets along the merchant quarter of the city. Her voice, thick with accent was unmistakable for another. The warrior’s posture straightens and his posture turns towards her with curiosity in his eyes. The wares he’s looking at can wait, there’s someone far more worth his time to talk to.

“I’m surprised you remembered me. Did I leave that much of an impression?” His voice holds warmth, he addresses her as he would have addressed a friend.

“…It’s been a year almost hasn’t it?”

Their initial meeting had been under strained circumstances. The death of another had been less than a pleasing sight, and from it confrontation and then debate.

     "Ah, excuse me," Jhin says in reply, unflinching. It would not be the first time he has been pushed in these markets-- the streets are long and short, forcing a density of shoppers and stalls that would be unprecedented in Ionia. The value of space is one that Jhin values highly, and he expects to see someone like a mother and her excited child when he turns, but he does not.

     Instead, he sees a spry, tall (though not taller than him) woman, whose hair is cut and dyed. Not a commoner, to say little of what she wore.

     Seeing her, he offers her a quaint, close-lipped smile. "Yes, an artist," he says, briefly glancing at himself. He is carrying his supplies in an ornate rucksack, his belt hoisted with brushes and paint jars. His clothes would remind her of a fuchsia flower-- royal purple steadily fading into red.

     "The scenery is lovely, of course. A fair sight away from Ionia, naturally." He makes little attempt to hide his accent, although his Common is impeccable. His frame and face would have given him away were it not for it. "I appreciate the looks-- but the verticality of this city is dizzying in comparison," he chuckles.

     "Where are you going? I doubt a woman of your statute has time for a simple artist such as myself." He bows politely.