To be called a noxian awakened a furious reaction in the woman, the same Zed had seen before in one person. And though that made him relent a bit, it was not enough to make him stop in his hostilities.Â
The shadow dashed forward, baring its spectral blades. The girl managed to evade a cut that would have been lethal had it landed in her neck, but Zed predicted as much. Finding his opportunity, the Master of Shadows came out of his shelter on the trees; a dark silhouette, swift and deadly, that would finish what his shadow had started.Â
But then, the woman reacted again, aiming her weapons at his direction. Something that she shouldnât have been able to. Zed saw the glistening threat of a dagger, aimed at his unprotected side now that his armblades were raised for an attack. To late to deflect. And he could continue, hoping that the wound wouldnât be fatal, and finally cut that womanâs throat.
But instinct acted quicker this time, and where once was a man, now there was a shadow. Her blade cut through the ethereal body, dispersing it in the air like a cloud of smoke, while Zed stood in the previous place of his shadow, still dangerously close to the woman.Â
The Master of Shadows raised his blades again, pointing at her but stopping mere inches away from her skin.Â
âThen what are you?â He demanded. If he finished sinking his blades on her body or not, depended exclusively on her answer.
Blade through wispy black smoke â her eyes widen slightly behind the mask, narrowing shortly after as she realizes the gravity of her situation. Nobody she had met could move that fast. Nobody â except a man spoken of in whispers, with stories of slay Temples and dojos where students were cut down for not joining him.
Jezebel breathes in sharply when she feels the blade so close to her skin, the dagger returned to point its tip towards the assassinâs torso, aimed for a vital point on his person. Even in the cool night air she could feel the beads of sweat gently gathering across her skin. He was leagues beyond her skill level, but she couldnât stop now.. Not to him. Not to anyone..
âNobody.â she says evenly, âI have long since cast away my ties to Noxus.â Adjusting her dagger in a position that should he close those last few inches, she would make sure she did the same, leaving him heavily wounded or dead should he decide to take her life.
Her other hand lifts slowly, raised to pinch the snout of the bone skull and just as quickly as it had been there, it seems to vanish leaving an origami mask pinched between her index finger and thumb. It would be there that her features became evident, mixed of Noxian blood and Ionian with lavender eyes cold, and aged by experiences she wished she could forget. Fearless on the outside despite the feelings swarming her innards deep, deep down away from her exterior to conceal them.
âNoxus will burn in an inferno of their own making. And I intend to spark the fire.â
Even with her life threatened, the unknown warrior still had the courage to point her dagger at him. Never surrendering, even when the odds were so clearly against her and a a wrong move could result in death. Zed could appreciate that spirit; how many with the same resolve had he gathered under his Order? However, only one could repeat the same words that she sent his way.
â... A noxian desertorâ, he said, after a few seconds of silence, not without disdain. âOne of manyâ.Â
The point of his blades shifted slightly, not as threatening as it was inquisitive. One of many indeed, but she displayed pure hatred instead of the fear Zed had seen before.Â
âYet that is not noxian magicâ, was all Zed mustered when he saw how she transformed her mask into a figure of paper. No, noxian magic could never conceive something so refined. Strange features met him, and the Master of Shadows found himself examining them for whatever piece of truth he might find hidden.Â
There was not much for him to see salve the genuine hatred with which she spoke. One to which he could relate. After a couple of seconds, Zed took his blades away, offering to the stranger something akin to a truce.Â
âYou speak with honesty. Many of us too share the same feeling towards the Empireâ, he explained. The Master of Shadows let his arms drop at each side of his body, yet his blades where not sheathed. âWho trained you?â
Woodsmoke. The unmistakably thick scent of wood fires put out long before first light. Fires in a manâs eyes put out long before his time. Extinguished by the strongest of gales, a bluster that disappears as soon as it arrives, leaving your hair a mess and you, surprised. You wonder when he will come back again. There is always the scent of spilled blood, new and old, one of which holds a remorse long locked away to be forgotten - no, he can not forget, he wonât let you forget. Magic - it has a scent. His is dark, a deep musk that could cloud all your sense of being and drown you in darkness, and you would be grateful for it. That death would be swift, and the scent of warmed steel cuts through you just as well as that blade on his arm. That smell of heat, along with the steel. Heat of his passion, his drive, his righteous fury - the heat of a vengeance, a want for justice that could not be delivered. That determination rises once again, strong and heady. There, behind all the smoke and shade, that determination gives rise to sweat, tears, more blood, of course - and yet, there is a clarity behind the sting of that salt, a ringing in the ear. There is affection there, one as a brother loves his brother, as a father does his son, as a master loves his students. Which way it all goes, no one knows.
Very, very interesting. More precise that what I had in mind, but itâs good to know this sort of things. Now tell me what the Navori Brotherhood is rito I need it for fic
One year later, I provide. If I havenât written this 5 times I havenât any, I swear it has been hard.A heart pounding memory doesnât need to be a good memory. And so I went the bad route and wrote about the night they captured Jhin which is, probably, one of the worst moments in Zedâs life.
[WARNING: some graphic depictions of body horror (you know Jhin, you know the jam), slight self harm, people feeling distressed and bad and having anxiety attacks and all that].
The sword cut the air like lighting in the darkness.
Zed felt the movement painfully clear, as if suddenly the entirety of his world had slowed down. The weigh of the weapon in his hand, the strain in his muscles, painfully tense with the force he put into the blow. The unbearable heat of his skin as anger boiled in his veins, burning in his lungs, making him feel like his chest was going to burst.
One strike to the head and it would be over. The anger. The pain. The nightmares.
But the blade never reached the cowering man at his feet. One hand closed around his wrist, stoping and dragging him back. Zed's feet made a wet sound when they stepped on the blood pooling over the floor to keep his balance. The room was filled with the pungent scent of torn flesh and fresh clay, sweetened by a layer of floral incense. It was nauseating.
"Enough".
Zed turned around, like a startled animal. Kusho's hard glaze fell upon him, eyes glowing with the light of the spirit realm like open windows to it. The boy clenched his teeth so hard it hurt, and yanked his hand away, trying to free himself. For a moment it seemed like he might, slipping from his Master's fingers, but the man caught him again, twisting his arm so he would drop the blade.
The weapon fell with a grating clang, deafening in the tense silence of the night, among horrors of flesh Zed dared not to look onto.
"Enough!"
"Let me go!"
His voice was choked with anger. Discipline and control were forgotten and the drive to kill Khada Jhin was almost a necessity. The demon looked at him from the floor, eyes big and expectant. Zed saw no humanity in them, just the hunger and the fear of the hunted beast. The man knew better than to say anything as the boy snarled with desperation, yanking painfully at his Master's grip.
"We are not murderers, Zed". Kusho's voice was patient but tired, unspokenly so. Both of his apprentices had seen how the man had slowly withered away during this journey. The white hair and the new wrinkles covering his face were just a proof of it, and only his words retaining the authority so characteristic of the Eye of Twilight.Â
"Why do you forgive him, Master?!" The boy turned around to him with a look that was both a plea and an accusation. "Why do you let him live?!"
He turned to Shen, a few steps away from them. Surely, his friend would understand. He would agree with him that forgiving this person, more demon than man, was not an act of justice but of madness. A mockery to all the suffering they had witnessed for four years.
But Shen did not meet his look of desperation. His gaze was unaverting from Khada Jhin, looking at him with such an intensity that would have paralyzed better men. An unspeakable emotion burned at the bottom of his clear eyes in a face that revealed absolutely nothing.
"It does not belong to us to bring justice over the guilty, Zed". As if he had read his thoughts, Kusho's verdict fell onto him, reprimanding. Making him feel guilty despite knowing that he was not wrong.
"It is our sacred duty to preserve Balance over all things, and to carry the things that have gone astray back to its path". He paused. Zed was squirming stubbornly, but Kusho knew he was listening in his silence. "This man is sick. His disease lead him as astray as the demons we battle but unlike them, he has a human heart and a human mind. He can be healed. He can be guided back to the path were he belongs..."
"I don't care!" Tears of anger and shame burned in his eyes. "Why should I care? He deserves nothing. He doesn't deserve to heal, he is the disease! He should die for all the harm he has done!"
Did Kusho forget so easily? All those horrors and pain. The cries, the tears, the lost daughters and sons, mothers and fathers, turned into something wretched for the entertainment of one single man. Had he forgotten the songs? How were they to explain that their loved ones will never have rest? That their suffering meant nothing in the great scale of things?
"Zed". Kusho never raised his voice and yet his calm felt more and more unbearable to him. He was being scolded and he hated it. None of his Master's world gave him any solace. "We are warriors of the Kinkou. Things die and are born in a never ending cycle we must preserve, and so the world keeps moving forward. We must remain impartial, for hate or love mean nothing to Balance".
'The Eye is blind to love, to hate'. Zed remembered those words. But in that moment they only made the Eye feel as inhuman as the murderer at his feet.
"Shen!" He called for his friend, desperate. "Do something, Shen!"
The other boy was startled, taken back from his deep thoughts. He looked at Zed, then at the lump of flesh beside him and took a shaky breath. For a moment, as he contemplated the malformed corpse of that village's potter (a woman without name, without face) a dark determination seemed to possess him, hands clenching tightly around the hilt of his swords, but it all burned away when he crossed glances with his father. Kusho's silence was heavy, not even angry, and Shen found himself growing small under his stern gaze. The fortitude he showed as the Eye of Twilight was something he should learn, and the boy ended up bowing his head in a gesture of surrender.
Zed felt betrayed.
Shaking under Kusho's grip, scared and ashamed of his own thoughts, powerless and guilty, he snarled and broke free with a painful yank. He turned around to look at his partners, with pain and hate and tears in his eyes.
"We were supposed to protect people!" He pointed at the dead woman behind them. A half-made creation, her torso was teared open, layered and meticulously shaped into a flower that would never finish to bloom. The same had been done to her face, where only lips remained, half opened into a sigh, a nascent scream.
He looked at the culprit. Khada Jhin was staring back at him, not a world uttered in those tense moments. His expression had not changed, yet his eyes felt so menacing. Like he was seeing exactly what Zed had in his heart, and enjoying how ugly it was.
That, and the sympathetic glance he received from Kusho as he sought him, were more than he could handle. He fled.
He hurried past the door, past the people gathering outside the house with both curious and worried eyes. He heard someone sobbing. He couldn't stand it. How could he face them knowing that he failed them? They will not have compensation or solace. There would be no retribution or justice for those who died, no peace, ghosts to be forgotten by a world that did not love them.
Zed ran until he left the village behind, until he could not hear their voices anymore. The outside air was fresh and cold compared to the heavy atmosphere from the room where they had been gathered, carrying the scent of water and damp grass with it. The contrast only made him feel more sick and, too nauseous to continue, he knelt down at the side of a small pond by the road, looking for shelter under the night shadow of a tree.
He pressed his shacking palms against his eyes, trying not to scream as his emotions consumed him, limbs going numb as if they didn't belong to him. He tried not to think on it, not to feel, but the events of the night kept awakening his distress.
For the longest time, nothing existed in the world beyond his shaking breath and the deafening drum of his heart in his ears. His whole body was collapsing and burning away to ashes out of his control, alien, and he dug his nails in the nape of his neck until he drew blood. The pain was an anchor in the turmoil of his emotions and he desperately sought for it, tearing his skin open as he yelped through gritted teeth.
He cried. The tears stung in his eyes until Zed could not contain them anymore, and he buried his face in his knees to hide them along the quiet sobs in his throat.
He did not sense it when, later, Shen approached him, not until his partner was standing at his side, with a face that was both bitter and sad. Resigned. Zed said nothing but seemed to became smaller. He didn't want to look at him. He was as angry at him as he was with Kusho, with Khada Jhin and himself.
Then Shen sat down and brought a hand to Zed's back, offering him a comfort he didn't feel quite worthy to provide, but his friend just pushed his arm away.
"Don't touch me", he said, with his trembling voice spilling venom.
He didn't see the pained expression that quickly crossed Shen's face, lips pressing into a taut line. The boy looked down, swallowing his emotions with a great effort, and then casted his glance to the pond, where lazy fireflies danced over the surface. They shared no more words, a tense silence between them as Shen pondered about the things he should say and Zed, about those he couldn't.
At the end, none of them said anything and those things remained unspoken until it was too late to give them any words.
Me: sees all the Tumblr commotion
Me: goes to see if the few risky pictures in this blog were flagged. Apparently not.
Me: Iâm too strong, i beat the system Â
small towns. big cities. six thirty curfews. lights that take the place of stars. blanket nests. light through the blinds as a wake up call. found family. finding a single star in the middle of new york city. window shopping. watching something terrible and enjoying it. Â growing numb to the sight of injustice. Â wilted flowers. faded caricatures. bright, bold colors.
HEARING.
crickets and lightning bugs. car engines and a / c units. a phone call to mom / dad. laughing with friends. jokes that are so bad you have to laugh. the clicking of computer keys. noise canceling headphones. the sound of silence. muffled music from another room. drumming fingertips on a table. clicking of pens. listening to a clock and swearing the ticks get slower. ringing in the ears. the voice of someone you love. pitch shifted songs.
TOUCH.
being held close during a long night. fleeting reassurances. holding hands when youâre scared. brushing fingers through strands of hair. freshly dried clothes. bruises on your knuckles. silk and satin. your favorite petâs fur or feather. wringing your hands anxiously. snuggies. comforters in the dead of winter. nails against skin. cold metal. leather in summer.
TASTE.
coffee in the morning. tea in the evening. bubblegum that lost its flavor. alcohol burning the back of your throat. homemade cooking, no matter whatâs made. blood in your mouth. stale air. mint. fresh vegetables. that processed taste of citrus candy. the first meal you cook by yourself that tastes good. foreign sweets. fast food. savory. bittersweet. sour. spicy. sweet. bitter. too much salt on fries.
SMELL.
morning glories and honeysuckles. freshly cut grass. hot chocolate in the middle of winter. nail polish. acetone. hospital rooms. smoke. hair spray. your favorite shampoo /conditioner. the scent of home. perfume.  cologne.  mint.  something burning. wet dogs. copper. metal. unemptied ash trays. something familiar yet different.
tagged  by: stolen from myself
tagging: Â whoever wants to!
she calls to him through the ora running through his own body.
Zed looked back at Sona in a stern way that could be appreciated even with his face hidden under the mask. She had been on the run for a while now, but as she appeared in front of him, the maiden still carried the same aura of radiant mysticism that Zed remembered from his fellow Templars. In comparison, he was like a scavenger pretending to be a saint. Nothing remained of the manâs old glory as a templar salve for the pride and the blue mantle they shared. âYou donât know about meâ. It was not a question, but a statement. Apparently, they no longer told about him in the Order. He wondered if that was for the best. âMy name Zedâ.
No further titles, no further presentations. He approached, the ora blades on his arms retracting at his will into rings, golden and dormant. Still, even without weapons at hand, there was something menacing in his movements, like a predator. A trait developed on habit, too used to the hunt to let it go.Â
âI know who you are. The Blessed Child. That who speaks with the Voice of Ora. I know why you are traveling with this people. Thatâs why I am hereâ.
âIf it cannot be destroyed, then the only answer is to throw it through the same hole it came beforeâ. And that only meant one thing: opening the Ora Gate once more.Â
Zed hummed, pensive. What he knew of the ancient artifact was scarce, yet it was clear to him that it was a dangerous. A power to big to be manipulated by human hands, and its dimensions, to wide to grasp. Opening it meant disaster in many ways, but mostly to the one manipulating it.
He saw the discouraged look on Sonaâs face but how it was quickly replaced with a new determination. Hope. Once again, Zed was surprised by the fortitude she sowed despite the danger following her and her group. The danger ahead of her.Â
And it awoke some kind of desire in him. Something that, in all those years of isolation, had been laying dormant but never forgotten. Guiding him from afar in his dreams.
The old Templar took an audible deep breath and slowly rose a hand to his covered face. It clicked and buzzed when Zed took the mask off, face to face with someone else for the first time in what has been probably too long. The air felt fresh against his cheeks; his face, scarred and unkept, was a clear display that he might have seen better days but his eyes, of a vibrant gold, were resolute.
âVery well, Sona. You know your enemies better than anyone, so I will trust your judgementâ. His voice was stern yet it didnât fail to show his respect. Bowing slightly, Zed was accepting her words and the commendable quest she had imposed on herself.  Â
And yet, the simple task the Seer was asking of him seemed far more difficult than facing any major threat to the universe. He did his best to appear relaxed. He could relax and take things at a paced way, and he was willing to prove it. Maybe then they could move forward to the matters at hand.Â
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