#shadow!ez

✫ — Ezreal doesn’t understand why Zed insists on sending the two of them on missions. Like, he gets it, intellectually—sending his two best students ensures that the job gets done and it gets done well. With Ezreal and Kayn working together, even if their diligence doesn’t get it done, their competitiveness will, but ... 

❅; Syndra’s eyes would dim for a few moments, before brightening back up to their usual glowing blue, she was surprised that he seemed to have changed so much in her time away. Not that it was a bad thing. “You seem much more lovely now, for one who used to be so full of light.” chuckling a bit.

@summonersauronbane from x

“How could I forget?” The man replied, a grin upon his lips that would surely have reached up into his eyes, if they were visible. As it was, he let out a light laugh instead, shaking his head slowly.

“It was a day I doubt I could ever forget. My first adventure in Ionia… With a young man that has grown so much since then,” Here his grin turned to a conspiratorial smirk. Another small chuckle, and shake of his head, “Do you still have the outfit?”

影 — It was a strange sensation that settled over him like smoke in a room. Something not dissimilar to when Zed bestowed upon him his approval, but without the weight of expectation. Without the brutality that seemed to ripple in everything his master did. Without the expected subservience. 

影 — He’d grown increasingly sullen as their visit had dragged on, and Ezreal now sat on the steps of the shadow temple, polishing the metal of his right gauntlet. The gem still glowed darkly upon his left wrist and his eyes were stone, his lips taut. There was a thinly veiled-impatience in the line of his shoulders, but Ezreal didn’t look up at the sound of footsteps behind him.

Send me ‘Mom’ + A Question and my muse’s mother will answer it.

      The thought seems to trouble the woman, just a little. Her lips press together, bloodless for a moment before she responds. “We wanted the best for him. He was born with a rare gift, you see. Magic of his sort is highly sought-after in Piltover, so we wanted him to learn to use it, and to be successful. He … Carlisle would be stern with him, but Ezreal was already cutting class, even young as he was. We wouldn’t have minded his hobby so much, only it got in the way of his schooling, and we were afraid that he would get lost.” 

Ask a Killer

影 — Things like ‘mercy’ and ‘weakness’ are subjective. For Zed, they’re synonymous. Ezreal was more prone to wishing for them when he was younger, but after achieving a level of power and control over the Order only bested by Zed himself, the disciple found that he could act on it all the better. 

     If someone invoked the wrath of the Order, they were destined to suffer. Zed didn’t show mercy. Ezreal had never met anyone more against the idea than his master, and he had many ways to exact his punishment. Torture was one of Zed’s favourite ways to dole out the Order’s special brand of cruelty. Ezreal watched. Sometimes participated, but he had proven his loyalty a thousand times over already, so it wasn’t required of him so much as others. Ezreal couldn’t really remember what this man had done, but Zed was standing at his side, arms folded, as a younger got close and personal with the prisoner. 

     There might have been a time where the process made Ezreal feel nauseous, or guilty, but today it only made him feel disgusted. Half-concealed by his scarf, the young man’s lips twisted, first in a grimace and then a scowl, because the sight of the prisoner’s hanging limbs and the sounds of his whimpereing was truly beginning to grate on his nerves. Was there truly something that was so bad that this man deserved such a fate? At what point is it gratifying those watching, rather than exacting punishment?

     Regardless of exactitudes, this man had passed that point. His suffering was no longer justified. Ezreal broken from his master’s side, smooth and mean as a panther, and seemed to move the younger disciple with nothing more than force of will. The younger will glance up at the look on Ezreal’s face and step aside like water for a rock. As he steps closer, driven by his aimless fury, Ezreal’s xiphoid blade slides from its sheath with the cool, familiar whisper of metal. Ezreal doesn’t speak, but the line of his mouth says this is enough. 

       His fist shoots out, close enough to the man’s throat that he could raise a finger and touch the raw skin there, but he doesn’t. The metal on either side is enough. Ezreal wrenches his arm hard to the side and drenches his front in blood before the prisoner could so much as whimper (how he hates that sound.)

Send me ‘Mom’ + A Question and my muse’s mother will answer it.