#viiegos

⋆ — He was invited, so obviously he’s going to show up. There’s free booze and a reason to get off Vlad’s couch, plus the promise of socialization, so yeah, he got himself dressed up for this, nice suit, shiny shoes, the works. He’s showered, shaved, and totally coping. He was going to show off how well he’s doing—really, he was!—but then he was sitting at a table with a young couple who were looking at each other with moony eyes and whispering about how maybe they’re next, maybe they’ll catch Isolde’s bouquet, and all Ezreal can think about is Lux. He’s thinking about the double dates they’d go on with Viego and Isolde, and he’s thinking about the way they used to make googly eyes at each other, and then he’s three glasses of champagne deep and it’s not helping because all he can think of is her and—

@viiegos​ / ☠ / accepting

There were only so many places you could go, in trying to evade the Mist. Getting cornered underground was dangerous, more so than in the open air. Talon had done their best in avoiding the hard-hit areas of Prime, but they knew having to run from the dark fog was inevitable. Uncertainty on whether it was poisonous had brought a fabric mask up to the assassin's mouth, though it would not prove useful. Talon comes to a halt as his visage appears, as the mist finally takes hold of their form as it wove its way around them. Confusion masked the anger at his question, and brought their arm blade up in preparation.

"What?" The gruff response was all they could manage as too many questions filled the assassin's mind. Such a personal jab was the last thing they had expected from anyone in the Mist. And they kept so many secrets deep down, never to share. Yet with his simple phrase, something dredges up those buried feelings. And with it, Talon's unchecked despair. They stagger back, held in the clutches of the mist as they desperately fight to regain control. "He- No... you-!" Their glare is quick to clear as it snaps back to his pale form. Teeth grit together, ripping themselves away from the prying fog. The wide look in their eyes would be mistaken for frustration by the untrained eye.

♡   NORMAL PEOPLE   [  𝙱𝙾𝙾𝙺 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝙿𝚃. 𝟷  ] // accepting

@viiegos

The sight of him made his blood boil, his eyes saw red for only a few seconds. The words had pierced through his clouded, rage filled eyes. Shutting them briefly as he let out a sigh. Counting to calm himself so that he wouldn't shatter his calm image so soon.

It was just a letter. That's all it was. Just one. He shouldn't be so mad. It was just one small letter.....

As he opened his eyes, they were pale instead of red. He studied him, looking him up and down to at his appearance. Hands clasped behind his back as more seconds passed by before he spoke, a forced smile accompanying it.

Family Headcanons

👩 = What’s your muse’s relationship with their mother, what made it that way?

It’s nonexistent, at the moment, but pre-Julian-turning-14 it was bad. (It’s still bad. He’s pretty terrified of the Marchands even now... The man will climb Targon for the woman he puts on a pedestal and obsesses over loves, but face the Marchands? No, he couldn’t.)

Marie Marchand is a noblewoman originally hailing from Noxus. She’s also the type of mother to be pretty controlling over what her children do, especially after the disappointment of her first son, Sebastian. By the time Ambrose (Julian, but it’s not like he was called that then) came around, she was pretty great at making sure everyone stayed in line. Which meant that no, Ambrose, you can’t do something stupid like be an artist or have an individual personality that I don’t like.

It also didn’t help that Ambrose wasn’t exactly expected, but y’know. You live and you learn and you emotionally scar all of your children in various ways!

👨 = What’s your muse’s relationship with their father, what made it that way?

Also nonexistent! Also bad before Julian ran away!

Laurence Marchand is a Piltovian businessman. The Marchand family business has changed over the generations, but at the moment it’s a nebulous collection of trade and transportation ventures. They have an investment in Piltover’s rail system, for example. (The Marchands would, funnily enough, function excellently in current Piltover’s mercantile - and mercenary - clan system. But they aren’t in that Piltover, so there.)

While Marie was actively controlling, Laurence was that “funny” sort of distant. He’s always been more invested in the Marchand business than the Marchand family. (Which might be why Aster, Julian’s oldest sister and resident cutthroat girlboss, was so interested in the family business, hm? But this isn’t about her issues, is it now.) I’m sure he had great views on how involved a father needs to be in a family and also what a man’s supposed to do and be in general. Out-of-universe, he’s less fleshed out than Marie, Sebastian, and Aster are. I’ll get to him when I get to him.

Summary: less actively awful than Marie, but the absence of awfulness does not mean the abundance of goodness. Or any goodness at all.

FANTASY STARTERS.

     Camavor has lovely gardens. It's nothing like the flora back home— and that's for the best. The land that Vladimir has known is decrepit, barren, and harsh. But here, everything seems to have a natural inclination towards life. The ferns are bright and green, the flowers fragrant and lush. Warm summer air stirs with a slight breeze, and Vladimir walks through, with Viego at his side.

     But the question surprises him. He cants his head to the side, eyeing Viego curiously. And then his attention returns to some lilies. He carefully places his fingers under the petals, to examine the flower closer.

     "That's an interesting question," Vladimir says, his words careful and guarded. Has Viego discovered his true nature, then? Has he delved into the rumors of sorcery and bloodbaths? No, he reminds himself. They are too far from that. Camavor is too far. There's an entire ocean between here and there.

     But he is not in the habit of lying. And he has no intentions of starting with Viego. Vladimir sighs. His fingers are delicate against the lily, and he lets go.