#uncle-touchy-lich

((HAHAHA, CREEPY FEELING, INNIT? The time I had that happen it was because the person had seen me interacting with "The one Talon blog" etc.))

“BITE YOUR TONGUE.” He hisses at Karthus. “I would NEVER protect that waste of flesh. EVER. The only reason I said what I said was because it would end up being a waste of time. He’d be better off rotting in that cell.”

He breathes heavily before a thought strikes him.

uncle-touchy-lich replied to your post “Why Irelia looks like a male version of Mulan? Just asking, maybe you...”

((I'M TIRED I THOUGHT THEY SAID GENDER BLENDER HELP

He is boiling with rage, positively seething, looming over the lich with nothing but pure fury in his eyes. It is incomprehensible to him - and the way that Karthus liked to flaunt his activities only drove him madder.

“I don’t appreciate your little intrusions. I have been more than tolerant of your constant meddling. The next of your little lost souls that tries to speak with me, I will take and turn it into a warrior, whether either of you like or not.”

His fist curls in Karthus’ robes, actually lifting the puny figure higher. 

“Do. You. UNDERSTAND?”

“Oh! That is a good question!”

The ethereal and bright voice chirped. The god was dressed only in a sheer white piece of clothing that bared his shoulders and ended just before his knees - an almost opalescent ribbon tied just above his hips. He thought, soft white hair shifting as he tilted his head first to one side, then the other.

A SHINY NEW SKIN? HOW LOVELY. | accepting selectively.

You are wonderful and horrid.

CRINKLE. Crinkle crinkle. 

Crinkle, scrunch crinkle!

[ @uncle-touchy-lich ]

It was not entirely surprising that Kayle would eventually find herself drifting through the silence towards the Shadow Isles. Her duty demanded it - burn away the darkness.

Not even the sound of her wingbeats permeate the Mist, even the shallow breaths she takes swept away by the stifling darkness. She sees nothing, feels nothing, hears nothing; it is oddly comforting, her skin untouched by the chill. She is far too bright for that.

The barest glimpse of grey, barren land through the undulating dark, and she drops, sinking until her feet sink into dust and decay. She breathes in, and exhales slowly - this is grave dust, to her, and she should not feel at home.

But she does.

Her body should be a temple, but it is a graveyard, and the way this dead ground settles into the grooves of her bright armour and clings to her form prove it. She is nothing but a barely-breathing memorial of times long gone, and this land knows it. It calls to her to lie down and rest.