#vixtionary

The procession traversed through abandoned paths, treading on mossy stone with practiced ease. Their cloaks dragged, edges fraying into the darkness to the point where one could barely make out the hood of those in front of them. It would be easy to blend in; in the silence, perhaps easier than simply follow. The rhythm of their joined steps provided cover. And they would continue their cavalcade until they reached that deeper, abandoned cavern.

Leading the coup, the slender frame with a dash of red halted before a particular barricaded exit. There once was a passageway there; one meant for water to traverse. Dusting off the stone blocking it further uncovered the corroded seal beneath; whoever had etched that so long ago was most likely gone now. Their faded work was doubted to succeed in sealing whatever it was they had been trying to cage. The party leader held their light up to illuminate its design.

A circle, with three points forming a triangle within. They remained staring at it a moment too long. And then the figurehead produced a dagger, with which they pricked a single finger; and, dragging the fresh wound over dead stone painted a dot in the middle. The design now resembled a blooded eye.

A pregnant pause.

And then the walls rumbled; a deep roar, complete with dirt and particles flooding the stale air. Some coughed, revealing voices that did, in fact, sound human and buried their faces in their elbows for protection. But once the dust had settled, the road ahead was clear. A path so narrow only one would fit through at a time. It extended into a spiralling corridor. The party leader threw a glance over their shoulder, once again flaunting that single read streak that had somehow escaped their cover. After ensuring that everything was seemingly in place (it would be too dark to tell much, either way) they brought the lantern close to their face and blew out the wick.

Darkness enveloped everything. There were footsteps. With a palm on wet walls serving as their only guide, they marched deeper...

It had been worrisome at first, following after the source of reverbing footsteps before the dim light was viewable again. A single wrong turn could have led the assassin into unknown peril, instead of the one they willingly chased. But it isn't long before the dark silhouettes were caught up with, and considering the setting, Talon gets as close as they dared to the final one in the marching order. Every decision to press on made the window of opportunity to back out slimmer and slimmer. Eyes boring into the dark robe in front of them, they take time during the silent expedition to lay out and consider the situation they had so willingly placed themself in.

Suspicious behaviour of multiple unknown persons, wandering - no, they were too sure-footed to just be wandering - into the catacombs that were largely considered too dangerous and too unlawful to venture into. On the slim idea that one of the members had, what, seemingly red hair? How foolish of a cause! Instead of tripping over their personal motives, Talon is quick to right themself with the fact that these individuals were blatantly up to something, and didn't want to be known about. No one with good intentions met and schemed down here.

Talon is cautious in their movements, now. Hands kept close and steps light as possible, seeking the higher placed stones. It didn't get any drier down here. Only more stifling. And stale. When the figures come to a halt, the assassin does their best to watch for why without being too obvious, peering over covered shoulders toward the hidden passage. Wisdom once riddled to them in a hushed tone echoes in their mind, seeing those runes be uncovered. And their focus briefly snaps to the corners where the lantern light did not reach, to check for feathery wings. What Talon could see of the small ritual tightened their chest, unsure of what to expect when the symbol was completed. So when the tunnels growled to life around the makeshift party, they hoped their jump of surprise wasn't visible. Head kept low until the sounds of displaced earth and rubble ceased, the beating of their heart from excess adrenaline felt like a fever beneath clammy skin. Looking up is when they spot it again. That damn loose strand of hair, taunting them to unmask who its owner was. Only after glaring at it through the gloom for a moment too long, did Talon attempt to draw back into their hood, to keep features out of sight. But it needn't be a worry for long, because with one quick motion, everything went black.

It's disorienting, for the first few moments, when the underground returns to its natural state. It feels like the world has pushed in on them and is ready to gobble them up; it takes stepping back into the side of the cold, uneven wall to remind them the location hasn't changed. Talon could hear them, continuing onward. It feels as if this is the final crossroads. Only the cloaked ones seemed to know how deep their journey would take them. At the very least, the passageway was narrow enough that they would have time as the others pushed through to think, and decide. It was stupid to go further in, blindly following these mysterious figures. Would they be able to escape if found out? Fight? Would the ancient magic offering this passage then close to seal their fate, tombed away after being lured in by the colour of hair? The faded, minuscule hope left in them held on to the implausible, unlikely thought that it truly was him, though. What if he needed them? Their final chance to save him, from whatever and whoever this was, keeping him in the dark all this time?! Talon feels a presence shift, then. The final figure they had hidden behind moved to bring up the rear now. And nearly instinctually, the assassin was right behind them. Whatever this was; cult activity, trap, or final chance, they would be prepared.

Thick brow quirked, his otherwise unmoving expression melting into a satisfied smirk. Momentary. With a cat-like approach, unexpected for a man of his stature, he slipped out of his coat and carefully draped it over her slumbering form, instead. Aside from the subtle pop in his bad knee, however, he would be especially quiet whilst assuming his place in his office desk, where papers awaited to determine the course of many other lives.

— @vixtionary

Rest is a luxury she can't always afford. That may not have been her outlook on it always, but Katarina had learned better than to take it for granted when the safety and comfort of a protected home had been left behind. There are few places where one can truly lower their guard as much, allowing for the vulnerability of easy targets to become theirs, albeit momentarily. A moment is all that is necessary for a life to be taken, after all.

But sometimes, rest becomes more demand than luxury.

After several days of running on as little sleep as possible (she was busy, the assassin reasoned; proper sleep could wait), the effect of her choice had made itself felt all at once. As the adrenaline that kept her fully aware throughout her mission faded and Katarina slipped into the Grand General's office to await his return, the feeling of sore muscles made itself felt; by the time she sat on the couch and idleness took over, her mind too began to feel the effects of exhaustion, lulled into comfortable quietness until the world faded.

Few are the moments when she looks so peaceful. Digits leave their mark on paper, strength poorly measured in unconsciousness, and were it not for the blood staining the document, some of which inevitably stains her fingertips also, nothing about her would denounce just what Katarina had been busy with before. The knives and daggers and armor, all in place even as she lays curled up on the couch, add to the warning of the fatal mistake it would be to be deceived by her innocent countenance.

Arms and armor may prove an inconvenient source of irritation for others; to her, the discomfort of steel offers the comfort of safety — as does the location, the familiarity of the office (and the trust in its owner) allowing the assassin the rarity of deep slumber. In habitual circumstances, Katarina would have easily opened her eyes at the first rays of light filtering through the window with the pull of the drapes; at most, she would have awakened with the weight of fabric, as the coat is carefully draped over her form.

SOURCE • always open!

IRIS: if your muse could convey one last message to someone they have lost or left behind, what would it be?

This was a bit of a headscratcher. I'm assuming it's referring to someone she's already lost or left behind.

There's a couple people deserve the honor of a last message from her. Things she wishes she had said in life but didn't because of such feelings as shame or pride. How about:

"You should have listened to me."

I think it's funnier if I leave the recipient out.

ALOE: how does your muse handle grief?

Poorly. You'd think after so much loss that she'd have learned to carry grief more gracefully. The governor's perfect as a statue while in public, and cries every so often when shielded from judgmental eyes. There was a time when she would internalize it, even becoming frustrated with herself whenever she failed, but after becoming physically ill several times, she eased off of internalizing.

IVY: what are your muse's views on marriage? do they believe it is something strictly for love, or an institution rooted in business & social benefits? do they desire or have they desired to be married?

I believe the Shuriman concept of marriage to be close to Ancient Egypt's; a contract. Property is catalogued and transferred, with divorce requiring certain terms be respected so neither side is left destitute. Moreover, spouses may take on as many lovers as they can financially support. The average Shuriman limits themself to one or two. That's not to say spousal love is rare, quite the contrary.

In short, it is an institution created to preserve respect and equality between partners spurred on by such feelings as romantic love, though not always.

Mariam has a favorable outlook on marriage influenced by positive models in her life, literature, and not lastly, exposure to different cultures. Your own spin on Noxian customs she'd find rather enchanting. I'm certain she researched it at some point in her life, perhaps going so far as to have learned some Ur-Nox.

She's always wanted it. It's obviously not a priority, more so a longing that hasn't yet been fulfilled. She's not looking to get spliced with the first person who shows promise, either. Her more or less secret engagement to Ta'Fik was broken because they couldn't agree on whether bringing other people in would be OK; he wanted to, she didn't. Too jealous.

She rolled her eyes, genteel pretence momentarily forgotten. She could fill entire shelves with the string of curses she's leveled at him over the years, perhaps a library. She stopped toasting some years back after raising her glass to his rotting corpse and seeing her wish unfulfilled time and again.

"A peerless honor. I can only do the same," she strained a smile, fingers squeezing around the silver-embossed glass with just a tad too much force as to make the fabric of her gloves complain.

"Although," rasped Soreana, "I have to ask, why me? It's true we haven't seen each other for a while, and I do so apologize for that, but I'm sure you've better things to do than entertain me."

She shrugged, accepting her predicament. "How do you fare, Jericho? I hear you've gone through rather turbulent times. It's good to see you looking so sprightly though. Is it not our nature to bounce back stronger than before?"

Soreana took a long, self-satisfied sip, and gestured him up and down.

@vixtionary is so inspiring with the handle that they have on swain & all noxian lore. ty for educating all of us on it, honestly !!! their passion makes me want to learn so much more about swain & noxus.