#thegoldendemon

@thegoldendemon​    asked:    44 ⠀ . . .⠀⠀[ ▶ ]⠀⠀⠀/ / / / / :      

❝       ...   there's no such thing as   brutal violence   in this world you like to call your dreams.      ❞

A liar tells his honest opinion | Accepting

Hmmm

     There is a boy, standing tall, a blade in his hand and rage in his heart.

     Zed stares down at Jhin, murderous intent flaring in his eyes. He takes a step forwards, lifting his weapon, and Jhin, the Golden Demon, murderer, actor, fraud, flinches, scared for perhaps the first time in his life. Zed whips his hand back, ready to jerk his blade across Jhin’s trembling throat, when Kusho throws his hand in front of Zed.

     “No,” he says, and Zed and Jhin both stare at him, shocked.

     “No,” Kusho repeats, taking his own steps towards Jhin, stooping down to bind his wrists and ankles. “He will be imprisoned. Balance must be maintained Killing him would ensure only the loss of yet another life.”

     When the guards arrive to take Jhin off to Tuula, the surrounding crowd erupts in cheers and celebration. The air is abuzz with excitement. “We’re safe!” People shout, clinking glasses together. “We’re free!” Some walk up to Kusho, to Shen, to Zed, congratulating them on their success. 

Women of Noxus understand there is a card in the sleeve - something as hidden as a silver blade or a silver tongue, waiting to be used against you, or to simply protect itself. A meeting between the elite is never as simple as a parlour’s afternoon; it is layered in secrecy, veils of cherry red over black roses. As such, she understands the morally unfavoured may make a public appearance. But no fool would stand in a room of Noxian elite and out someone’s hidden identity so clearly. 

The knives may come out. The bride will come out.

The DuCouteau parlour hums with a violin by the window; Countess Eliza stands at the doorway to the kitchen that leads to the patio, charming the brother to her husband. Cassiopeia DuCouteau lays on a lounger, white gown stretched over her beautiful legs, not a single fold rustled by the wind.

The Black Rose sends only its best.

“Are you the one who represents High Command?” she asks it with all the innocence of an inquisitive maiden, the one who can slip a nail under the latch and swing it open. She doesn’t know where he came from, but she knows he’s no Noxian by blood. And that is acceptable. She knows his uniform is real. She knows he’s comfortable. An uncomfortable presence doesn’t settle by Marcus’ serpent daughter so boldly.

“My dear sister told me we would expect visitors from parliament,” says Cassiopeia, finger twirling a brown hair curl. “Or do I have you mistaken for someone else?”

meme

&& rose colored petals would p a r t  as soft breeze pass’d thru them. slender digits would rise && curl delicately ‘fore pressing contemplatively on smooth porcelain skin. 

                ——————  ❝  p e e v e s?❞ she would breathe with uncertainty, && her brow would pucker just the slightest as soft, curved hairs dimpling her innocent forehead. Onyx lashes flicker downward as those petals slip open once more. 

               ——————  ❝ I don’t have many, I’m afraid.❞ 

           eyes a’glow and ever attentive, he could feel the ripple of energy, just as he could feel all else; potent was the light that had grown within, though obscured, as if seen through murky glass; not evil, though not good - it’s own course. the same sense could be felt from the mysterious figure he’d glanced over. his form distorted; not quite solid, yet with some expense he’s able to more materialise. he’s heard of the entity, vaguely uttered by the others of his kind; wary they were, yet the being felt nothing of the sort, though his eyes were sharply trained, ever ready. 

PROMPTS. | mutuals pls

What kind of a man leaves corpses at the bells of the Placidium then expects me to be flattered at wordplay in a letter?

There’s a pile of them in a quiet corner of my house. Haikus, poems-- promises that he’ll see my head on his mantle, dissected blades and all. I haven’t the heart to burn them, not knowing what his magic is capable of, and burying them would leave too much room for his satisfaction.

I don’t know what he wants. Does he know what he wants? There’s something bizarre, alien about the way his mind works. Dieased and ill, so callous as to deem his grotesque displays as art. Demon is fitting even if he still yet bleeds like a man and is feeble like a man.

It’s easy to despise him. Frankly Ionia would be beyond safer and cleaner should I find the opportunity to thock my blades through his chest, finding justice for the countless victims and the countless more he’ll slay for anyone’s attention.

But.

Just as that devil insists, there is a greater stage than what meets the eye. He’s invited me to solve the puzzle. I imagine he’s giddy with glee with every step closer I take to him behind the bars. That mongrel! There are people’s lives at stake and to him it’s a game!

...

It’s a game he knows I have to play.