#slaysgod

anonymous and @thelittlestdemon also asked:  🍎

SEND ‘🍎’, THEY HAVE TO TALK ABOUT SOMEONE THEY LOVE/CARE ABOUT/IN LOVE WITH. IF THE EMOJI CANNOT BE SEEN, SEND ‘Apple’

drafts. one starter  contact. i’m gonna hop onto my who blog @oakdown for a bit greetings to. @slaysgod, @perceives, @aviophobic, @cwpanaid, @empathicstars && @sowithout!! returning. heading into town for lunch tomorrow so i might only be around for an hour or so in the evening, but saturday for sure! it’s been lovely to be back 

league lyric prompts

“Yea, cuz no one’s more stubborn than you are.” He tells it like a sort of joke at first, before giving a genuine grin, and placing a hand on his partner’s shoulder. He pauses for a second, laughing at his own bad joke. 

@slaysgod asked: “ you swallow your words and bury your thoughts so often. i would love to see the day it all comes barreling out. ” / from tianna

Luxanna was scowling, in such a way that, if her mother were here she would have called the expression unladylike. Although, in this moment, she did not much care what her mother may have thought. She was tempted to give the High Marshal what she seemed to want, a piece of her mind, but she continued to hold herself back. A leveling breath followed closely by an extended exhale dissolved the creases along her brow. There was a deliberateness to her, a defiance in her lack of subtlety, more swallowed words and buried thoughts.

        arm in arm,  down the hallway the two stroll.  the late eve heralds the end of their duties---  dinner served and the lady retired to her chamber for the night.  indra can feel the tension piled throughout the day evaporating as esther hums beside her.  the smile to her face is unbidden,  but she doesn’t attempt to hide it.  she’s content.  

“Yeah? BEEN there, DONE that. The KEY is to not GIVE A SHIT.”

Maybe Draven wasn’t the BEST PERSON to go to for advice; a man with such an inflated ego learned not to care what others thought as long as it was PRAISE—and even so, NEGATIVE ATTENTION was still ATTENTION and he continued to THRIVE off of it regardless.

Still, the fact LEBLANC was coming to him about this—well—wouldn’t someone else be BETTER suited for it? Well, maybe not. There was no one out there better then him. But at the same time—he wasn’t good at this sort of…advice. DRAVEN sighs, a hand running through his hair.

    They say there is no nobility in Noxus Prime.

    Everything should be meritocratic, from the smallest peasant’s earnings to those sitting in the spire as Grand General and adjacent. That to live is to work, and to work is to prosper. Such meritocracy that Khada Jhin, today Vane Pazzolo, passes by a throng of beggars the near instant he steps off his carriage, on strangled cobbles and fraught stonework. But when is reality not often disappointing?

    He’s come seeking answers.

    Pazzolo, before he became a mask for Jhin to wear, had been one of those mythical aristocrats on the eastern seaboard of Noxus. Father a winemaker, or some other boring thing, but Pazzolo had no love for the vineyard and used it as a front to finance such sympathetic activities as tracking down forbidden books which with to summon monsters from other dimensions in profane rituals. It was neither the books nor the monsters which motivated Jhin’s benefactors to take Pazzolo off the board, instead that when offered a rose of his own, Pazzolo staunchly refused. Not as pragmatic as this Golden Demon, it would seem. Nevertheless, his body made for rather the fine tapestry, when it dried.

    Jhin has no love for Noxus. Its claims of meritocracy ring as hollow as Ionia’s to pacifism, and that’s just trite. Still, he admits that the war did plenty to showcase his countrymen’s renewed appetite for carnage (yours truly included), and that’s worth some respect. It’s s shame then that so much of Noxus is as unimaginative as it is, what with the iron steeples and skulls strewn about the place as if repetition somehow made it more ghastly as opposed to irritating. But, again, when is reality not often disappointing?

    People are here to kill him.

    Jhin senses it from above—heartbeats. First, a second, a third and—he smiles—a fourth. Must have been waiting for him since he came off the carriage. It’s raining, and gently does Jhin pull his hood down and let the rain filter through his hair. He can hear an arrow being notched.

    “Let’s begin.”

    The performance, unsurprisingly, doesn’t last for long. Short and sweet, as Jhin is sometimes receptive to—together he has collected them into a lovely amalgam of parts, gold and porcelain, that will be to the horrific delight of whomever fortunate enough to find it next. The art, though perfect as always, isn’t what’s important here. This is:

    An invitation, found with one of the assassins and written on iridescent vellum. Signed with a rose.

    Hnh.

    Seems like for once, Khada Jhin’s about to be an expected guest.

    The riddle contained on the vellum was not difficult to decipher, nor did Jhin expect that it would be. Little more than necessary precaution and mood-setting, he’d suppose. He finds the empty abbey with relative ease, taking out the loose stone to reveal steps under the altar. Nor does he believe this to be anywhere but a transient site for this particular meeting—he knows better of his benefactors than to ever think they’d show him the belly of the beast willingly.

     All in due time.

    Jhin descends the steps, the underground he’s presented with rife with a musty odor and the impression of being far, far older than the abbey built above it. Whispers of magic are plentiful here, buzzing in Jhin’s ear like cicadas. Smoke… and mirrors. He ignores his own reflection.

    “Pale lady,” Jhin announces. “Suppose it’s time we’ve met in person.”

I ASKED FOR MEMES, THANKS FOR INDULGING ME.

Her laughter is genuine -- there is no need to feign derision when it is brought to surface so naturally. When it stops, emerald eyes meet Tiana’s blue with a fierceness that does not speak of amusement, but of disdain. 

“ You’ll have to work a lot harder to be regarded as that, Crownguard. ” Demacians had never been one of her fears; not even when she had been but a young girl with too much skill and too little sense. She knew she was better than them, and no humbling lesson had changed that. For all his failings, her father had taught her well what was deserving of respect, fear even -- and what was not.