Matron of the Black Rose

Formerly an Ask Blog, more OOC and occasionally a League blog."The world is very different for those who cannot see beyond what is placed before their very eyes." Icon Art Source: The very lovely TrollLeona

[matronoftheblackrose]

silcorynard​:

matronoftheblackrose​:

Unprompted Meeting

If he were a younger man, he might have reacted to her accusations with some of his own, answered the Matron’s slyness and threats with aggression and vitriol. But he’s come a long way, from the dark and the river and the boardrooms, and patience is a virtue that he possesses in spades. So he sits, and he listens.

There is a distinct disinterest that eases into his gaze as the Matron continues her speech. He has been witness to all manner of business proposals, but this one fits a pattern of behaviour he has seen countless times before. The aristocracy have expectations about what the proletariat can be swayed by, and here the Noxian Madam is playing card after card after card. Perhaps if he is overwhelmed by all her good sense and clever ideas, he will fold. And yet, the more she speaks, the more he seems unfazed, perhaps even detached; even the magical display doesn’t provoke a reaction from him. He just smokes, slowly rendering his odd-smelling cigar to ash. 

She has everything already arranged. She even has papers on his desk ready for him to sign. It seems she has come here with the assumption that his cooperation is inevitable; he has made her wait long enough, and now he will fall in line and behave. Or so it is expected of him.

He picks up the paper and reads over it, until the darkness prevents him from doing so, when he must look at her and pay attention to her closing argument. He will finish his cigar, wasting not a gram of the herb within, before he exhales a sigh and stubs it out in the ash tray. He does not rise for a second one; he needs his head to be clear. Straddling the line between pain and relief is necessary in business.

“There seems to be quite a few details that have become ensnared in misunderstanding, Matron Leblanc.” He gestures at her with the paper, a small tilt of the page, as he leaves the cigar stub in the ash tray with his other hand. “For starters, is it Noxus that wishes to business? Or the ‘Black Rose’?” Such an organisation was supposed to be nothing more than rumour and gossip, something destroyed in the fall of the last regime. Weeds have deep roots, though, so he is not entirely surprised to hear about this particular relic’s endurance. 

He sets the page down with the others, and folds his hands together. Sitting forward and meeting her gaze as he speaks, his tone level and his voice even. He meets her floral, elaborate speech with a calm short rebuttal. 

“The sanctions you speak of do not affect my district. Our infrastructure is sound, sounder than most; also, those who live here do not have the lack that many of the other districts do. This is not only due to careful business decisions, but due to the sense of community that we foster here. We do not allow poverty to strangle us. It’s bad for business.”

His red eye twitches. Pulses. He presses his lips into a line for a moment, until the pang eases.

He continues, “You insist on avoiding the proper channels in order to maximise profit, and then in the next breath claim that such a venture would improve the infrastructure of my district. You cannot have both, madam, not in the way you have described. You also greatly misunderstand my method of doing business. I am not a tyrant. I do not decide the fate of Visby-Bergen alone. Even if I signed a paper putting something in motion, every Union in the district has a right to contest their councilman’s decision.”  His scarred lips twist into a proud smile. “As well they should.” His smile fades. “If you wish to do business with my district, then it requires discussion with at least three dozen different labour-force representatives. The Unions here must weigh their options in, with every voice heard.” He taps his thumbs against each other. “Your investors would also have to come and state their case, which I imagine undermines the discretion you were hoping for.”

As though there was anything discrete about the obscene machine she showed him. Or the way her magic darkened the room.

“You can surely understand,” he sits back in his chair, hands on the armrest, “Why I would need to clear up such misunderstandings. There must be none between us, I think, or business would be…” He curls the fingers of one hand, then uncurls them again. “Difficult.” 

He doesn’t seem rattled by her threat. Or her warning, if that’s what she wants to call it. He just watches her for a moment, giving her time to put together another counter-argument, or perhaps another insult or threat, as is her prerogative as a visiting dignitary.

There has been only one point he has not argued against. His scarred face is calm, his hands still on the arm-rests, and no tension showing in his position: perhaps he is saving that rebuttal for another moment. 

His eyes remain disinterested.

The Matron listens to Silco, still smiling, and as he finishes, she stares at him in dead silence. Her smile fades. LeBlanc does not say anything as she brings her left hand up, flicks her wrist, and makes a bottle appear in hand. It is a green mottled bottle, corked by clumsy hands. LeBlanc uncorks the bottle, allowing the nasal-piercing scent of sweet plum alcohol to permeate the room, and places it on Silco’s desk. As her fingers pull away, two simple glasses appear as well. The Matron tips the bottle and pours the transparent golden liquor into the two glasses. She takes one of the glasses for herself and gestures Silco to the other glass.

“Zaunite kuitze, purchased from a local worker. From what I understand it is one of the best homemade brandies in Visby-Bergen. I hope you like your drink strong,” LeBlanc says as she smells the alcohol, sweetly pungent, an all too familiar aroma that cannot be found anywhere else in Runeterra except for Zaun.

The Matron takes a sip of the brandy, the temporary sweetness is quickly overwhelmed by the crash of barely diluted alcohol. Her cheek involuntarily twitches in response.

“This time, I sincerely and wholly apologize for treating you any less than what you deserve and I admire your patience. The Merchant-Prince folded like an accordion as soon as I brought up the possible revenue and we focused on economic yields rather than these finer points.”

The Matron leans back into the air, a cloud of violet magic preventing her from tipping over, and gives Silco a small shrug. “Before answering any of your other rebuttals, let me answer this: why am I speaking to you and not your colleagues?”

LeBlanc swirls her glass, her nose crinkling at the myriad of scents in the air now. “With my current array of tools exhausted, under normal circumstances, what do you think I would do next as an out of touch aristocrat who floats on un nuage of her own self importance?”

LeBlanc gestures towards the window, and as she speaks, various images come to life on the glass in the image of black and purple silhouettes that act out all of the the actions and implications of her words. 

“Why, I would probably attempt to bribe you, or say I know some very important people. Maybe throw in the classic, ‘do you know who I am’ line. Perhaps I should take on the moniker of a predator and threaten someone, but I am not un brute and I know I would sever any chance for discussion the moment I do so, and at best it would stoke the flames of your counteract and at worst it would get me shot in the face. I know who your daughter is, after all. You are not the tyrant, ruler, king nor baron of Visby-Bergen, ergo why should I talk to you?”

The Matron takes a moment to slowly fill her mouth with a long drink of the potent brandy, not shuddering or twitching this time, despite the strength of the drink, as though to prove a point, and continues to speak, her silhouettes continuing their performance, 

"Whether it is money, sex, family, general relationships or whatever other values one may have, everyone has a price. And when that price is issued and doled, people have certain reactions to it. I am gauging your reaction because you are hiding your tells well. Yet out of those three dozen representatives, how many do you think would accept a bribe? Not one of your quaint Zaunite bribes that were, and are, doled out like shimmer at a rave to unscrupulous foremen. I mean a dozen or so proper, life questioning bribes. 

And out of those three dozen who do not accept the bribe, who do you think I could sway with a simple favor? Or find a decent concubine or three? I could always arrange a few well placed affairs and possible marriages, set the field for some image breaking blackmail, and at the end of all of this, put forth possible agents to be elected in the new positions. Or if they are stubborn enough, maybe they just meet industrial accidents and are reduced to mere footnotes of the dangers of the gas-paralysis safety handbook. After which they are replaced soon afterwards, a similar fate a certain Foreman Jackard suffered in 4 BLE. Terribly curious what happened there but far from the point.”

LeBlanc, her expression as blank and stoic as a porcelain mask, flicks her finger in the air as she finishes her glass of liqueur, places the glass on the table and continues her theoretical musing while her dancing silhouettes mimic a council of angry figures arguing.  “Then at the end of it all, with all of these people bribed, let’s say some trumped up aristocratic tart has done all of this to oust you from your position, and it is a unanimous vote from all three dozen representatives to have you retire from your position and from Zaunite politics. What would you do? Would you truly sit there and accept such terms and shuffle into obscurity? Or let us go a simpler route: you meet an industrial accident and are removed from the picture suddenly. Who do you currently trust to carry on your legacy to continue these upward, constructive changes made to Zaunite policies? Which representative? Who of your closest confidants could carry and maintain your legacy right now? How so very baisé do you think Zaun would be if all it had were your three dozen representatives and no ‘you’ to represent the needs of Zaun?”

[matronoftheblackrose]

silcorynard​:

Unprompted Meeting

He lets her speak. He listens to her, and her understanding of Zaunite politics, and of what she thinks will appeal to him the most to hear. This woman is a conqueror, used to power in all its forms, so it comes as no surprise to hear her speaking of manipulation of markets, of how sides might be played against each other, of what would be good business - best business - to be done in Zaun. She plays it off with an outsider’s surface-level understanding, but there are turns of phrase and moments in her speech that Silco sees more than that. 

He might need to bring this up at the next chair meeting. Has Noxus been playing the districts against each other? At the very least, it needs to be considered. It would not be the first time, and while it is likely that Piltover will get back the territory they lost eventually, it will be in a process far more drawn-out than it had been when the League was involved. Power has changed hands and everyone wants a piece. He understands that very well.

But the pièce de résistance is her closing statement, her request. He would raise both eyebrows if he could, but seeing as he only has the one, it puts in as much work as it is able to.

“I may be an Environmentalist, Matron Leblanc, but flowers?” 

He taps away some ash, and looks at her with mild incredulity. She has come all this way to negotiate for ornamentation? And ephemeral ornamentation, at that? Zaun’s climate would render such imports useless within the hour, even in a fresh-air district like his.

She’s not smiling. Neither is he. There is a threat in this, somewhere, he is well aware of that. She would not come all this way to make a demand for a year’s worth of tax exemption for some baskets of lilies and bouquets of roses. Or lavender, he notes, as he inhales his next breath, and then his next lungful of smoke.

“The mountain road isn’t the most forgiving to such delicate cargo,” he says. “No matter how close my district might be to a Noxian trade road, much that enters through the Bergen Pass arrives roughed up from the incline and the exhaustion of the workers. Are your flowers something that can be risked? Surely such a shortcut has no benefit when you consider the ports Kovachev controls, or the pass Piltover has so generously left open for you.”

A year for a few deliveries? Contraband, then. All the more reason to keep the taxes high. Contraband is good business if handled correctly, though it would be supremely bad business if something imported were to undermine the careful balance he has already established. But all taxes, not just on Noxian traders? Who else could trade with him? He isn’t in a geological position to play the middle man. This is a puzzle, and he might not have the time or the power to unravel the whole knot before he is forced to make a choice. Some of the rope might be around his neck this very moment.

“Not good for delicate cargo? Tut tut, Councilman, what kind of advertising is that? If I were an interested businesswoman and you said such horrible things, it would make my floral deliveries difficult. ” LeBlanc says with a small series of head shakes and rapid ‘tsks’. She smiles and croons, “And what if I were to tell you that you have a chance to make your routes smoother than polished Freljordian ice?” Allowing for Silco a moment to consider the impact of her words, the Matron continues,  “I have spoken to a few investors and for what we need transported we need it to be fast, efficient, smooth and most importantly, discreet. However, why should it only extend to goods that benefit the Black Rose organization? Much like you, I care for the citizens, I care for their well being and with how trade has been, with how trade has suffered so too has the average Noxian, and Zaunite, person. Especially at the hands of the sanctions imposed on us by the other Runeterran nations, you and I, our nations, suffer from the inability to trade key resources needed for infrastructure.”

As the Matron speaks, and as Silco looks through the signed documents, he may spot a document related to a shipment to Noxus. Not a digit, not a copper, was lowered, the Noxian paperwork was unaltered in any way.

“Through proper channels, it would take too long to receive what I need if I could only use ship, it could be intercepted by a variety of external and internal pressures. Through proper channels, nothing would improve for either of us. If only there was some way to better transport goods as delicate as flowers.”

LeBlanc taps her forehead, tittering, as she rolls her left hand forward, palm up, and a magical, violet outline of a sleek vehicle appears. It is shaped like a centipede, except instead of legs each segmentation has a pair of tucked in wheels. Every millimetre of the tiny projection is etched with runic patterns, and as it turns a corner or goes up a sharp incline, ephemeral hands stretch out, grab onto whatever ground the vacant air is supposed have, and like row oars, its appendages go up and down, digging deep into the air and propels it past such laughable obstacles. When it needs to stop, the hands come out, reach underneath and grab the wheels, and its head unfolds to reveal a tiny caboose-

“Oh dear, it seems I made a mistake and got ahead of myself. I probably should not go into too much detail about le Mille a Main, or ‘The Thousand Hands’ project yet.” 

The Matron snuffs the image with a simple clench of her fist. 

“Let us talk about the possibilities it will yield before we discuss the risks. What if there was the possibility of increasing the import/export yields, bypassing sanctions and embargoes under the nose of all the nations, and with the smoothness of a calm sea rather than the rigid rocks of Zaunite and Noxian roads/mindsets? Think of the revenue generation of the following: Zaunite jobs that will be generated through such a project for infrastructure, for landscaping, for trade, perhaps the rise of mining opportunities as mountains will have to be excavated and be bore through with the possibility of the yield of possible precious resources that were once inaccessible, and last but not least, the revenue generation from the increased trade for the delivery of some flowers that would be ultimate result of this project. 

Now, I may be displeased with your conduct of business, but not because I do not respect it. I however have heard tales of your ability to be flexible without compromising the end result, and I hope to see a demonstration of this wonderful trait. There are risks, but are you the Councilor of Zaun, les Borgnes Roi himself, the man of the Zaunite proletariat who will help rise them from the smog of poverty to new, crisp heights that will make Targon envious by hearing out this project?”

The room darkens despite the sources of light. The fiery ash of Silco’s cigar go dead, the flame extinguished, and the room seems to shrink, constricting the both of them with a choking darkness. The Matron’s voice dips full octave, her eyes narrow and her voice is like brittle glass, 

“Or you Silco Rynard, père d'une pute boiteuse, the man who, when a loose cannon shoots you in the foot, makes a mockery of your own efforts, who is shaken by emotion and becomes risk averse despite the potential overwhelming positive yield, decisions that have made some of your subordinates question you? Because even though it will cost me a dozen or so million more, and there are risks, the Merchant Prince awaits with salivating anticipation to accept it. Do you want to hear more about the Thousand Hands project, or do you wish to remain ignorant and wash your hands clean with the grime and blood of your countrymen’s wasted potential?”

Silco’s cigar reignites with fire and smoke, the room lights up, and LeBlanc smiles at him, waiting for his answer. The Merchant Prince knows of this project and wants to accept it, why bring this up at all? Again, to poke at Silco, to see how he will react, if he will react with emotion or frustration, or will he conduct business. 

[matronoftheblackrose]

silcorynard​:

Unprompted Meeting

matronoftheblackrose​:

He pauses here, to lean back in his chair, and take a longer pull on his cigar, pluming the smoke over his head in a slow exhale. He’s feeling a little steadier now. No doubt possessing  a keen nose, the Matron might smell that the cigar contains something more than merely tobacco. Many might find the smoke a little disorienting, after lengthy exposure. Silco is being polite enough to maintain his exhalations over his own head, rather than in her direction. 

“Noxus has port rights in Solovki and Magdan, though I am aware the Merchant-Prince’s port fees can be,” a slight quirk of his scarred lips, “Exorbitant. Still, there is land trade through the Halle and Wismar districts, are there not?” He takes another pull at the cigar, and holds the smoke in his lungs for a moment. His blue eye closes, while the red remains staring, unblinking, focused on the woman’s face. “Those districts think quite highly of Noxus. After all, it’s thanks to Noxian involvement that the Grimdark Oilfields are what they are. Or, rather… were.” He cocks his head slightly, blue eye opening again as he goes to tap his cigar on the ashtray again. The oilfields drying up had made the news in the last couple of years, as did Piltover’s mewling for the return of its territory. “Trade through other districts, including my own, must always be slower, and subject to greater taxes. This is how it has always been. If something has changed, Matron Leblanc, then I would very much like to know why trade through the Visby-Bergen district interests you.”

“Councilman it shall be,” the Matron answers with a quick nod.

At a casual glance, Silco’s cigar smoke does not seem to bother the Matron, regardless of its unique properties. However, to people who make their living reading the body language and the nuances of the tells that a person exhibits, the involuntary twitching of her right nostril, on an otherwise unchanging, smiling expression, reveals that LeBlanc is perhaps not used to Silco’s unique brand of cigar. There was definitely a little je ne sais quoi in that Zaunite brand of tobacco that, even though Silco blew the smoke away from her, LeBlanc could tell. It was no Zaunite brand she knew of, this would have to bear some investigating later.

LeBlanc quietly listens, staring at Silco, combing through each said word and unsaid word with a fine tooth comb, and waits for the opportunity to speak. When Silco finishes, the Matron’s smile breaks into a toothy grin.

“The Oilfields, yes, and you know that despite Piltover’s pleas, Noxus has not returned the land despite the economic ramifications of the jobs lost, a terrible matter that affected both Noxian and Zaunite workers. And as you know, Noxus has been in the throes to map out a solution to consider an alternate, perhaps more sustainable economic pursuit, so the oilfields can be reopened. Yet, with that said, would you blame Noxus if they were to sell the Grimdark Oilfields to Piltover, or perhaps to even gift it?”

The Matron titters and waves Silco off, along with some errant cigar smoke.

“Before you misconstrue me, Councilman, no that is not the case. As you said, Halle and Wismar currently favour Noxus and we would not be so foolish as to leave them in the lurch, fiscally or symbolically. But, that would have been business, as you would say, Councilman, with a puff of a congratulatory smoke. Your stocks go up, your revenue increases, the workers be damned, toes are stepped on and severed and the public image is shattered, yet it has benefited a sole person’s well being. This may be a branch of business that is practiced. but would you want to do business with such a person, or such a nation who constantly exhibits this? Even the Merchant-Prince know his limits, when to push and when to acquiesce in the name of relationship development. So, why my interest in the Visby-Bergen district?”

The Matron’s eyes flash a brilliant violet pulse of energy, the smell of the cigar temporarily disrupted by a wave of lavender.

LeBlanc raises a finger and continues, “Vendre la mèche, the Black Rose needs to make a few floral deliveries through your district. I wish to ask you to lower the taxes for your district for all imports and exports, not just Noxian, for at least a full year.”

There is Mundo believing that licking to the centre of a brick lets him unlock the caramel flavor train level of stupid, and then there is this level of stupidity. If there is a punchline to this joke, the Matron is not laughing. Surely she cannot be serious. However, LeBlanc eyes Silco like a hawk- waiting for a response, expecting a response. Something visceral, something outlandish, but then there is her smile, like she expects Silco to read deeper than the center of a brick level of lunacy.

[silcorynard]

Unprompted Meeting

@matronoftheblackrose [x]

The Matron listens, and maintains her smile, and waits for Silco to finish. When he does, she gives him a little shrug, her voice light, “Beneath me? Unnecessary? I see, I see.”

LeBlanc titters, her laughter like the gentle ringing of crystal bells, and continues,

“Again, I’m glad we understand each other so well. The bigger picture is both fairly simple and fairly complex. According to you, I should have gone through more official channels to commune with you. Me? I could have, certainly, but I was unsure of the degree of success. From what I understand, many a Noxian entrepreneur went through the proper channels, many Noxian politicians inquired, yet no answers were given. The Noxian imports and exports have noticeably slowed, financially affecting said stakeholders, because of how coy and how much of a tease you yourself have been in regards to such trade negotiations. The longer these negotiations fail, the more likely it could affect my business. And me in all of my egotistical nature thought, ‘Perhaps Monsieur Rynard wants to speak to me directly?’ Perhaps that was the point of all of this.  Now, I may have been mistaken, but having received no formal word, no chance for a counter offer, no room for discussion, there was not much I could do and few ways I could interpret such a strong message, not that I fully fault you for this! Some blame can be laid upon my organization and the nature of it. How easy is it to get in contact with us, after all? All we have is word of mouth or the occasional, specific contact. Speaking of whom, I will have to commend Tulip sometime.

I can take some fault, yes, but the other stakeholders who have been affected despite their want to attempt official channels to resolve this issue? C’est simple comme bonjour! At least, it should have been that simple. And the sheer implication made to our Noxian investors, financiers, politicians, generals, entrepreneurs and civilians, I think it is beneath you and unnecessary of you to conduct yourself in such a way. But I refuse to believe you, Monsieur Rynard, would conduct yourself in any such way, and that you have been wanting to make a point. I have heard you fort et clair, and I shall grant you your request.”

LeBlanc maintained her smile as she twirls her staff behind her, releasing it mid swing. She leans back and sits down on what should have been nothing, but her golden staff remains hovering mid-air, acting as a perfect seat for her as she lifts one leg over the other and folds her hands on her lap.

Though she is smiling, the Matron’s voice dips an octave as her warmth, flirtatious tones are replaced by cold professionalism, “Mettre les points sur les i, shall we discuss business? I know you have the time for it. I made sure you do.”

He prefers his threats to be overt. Ouvert, as it were. So of course, here she is, one of the most powerful - and arguably most dangerous - of the Noxian powers, in his office with a smile on her face, a criticism of his way of doing business, and a casual display of unnecessary magic. It was hard to tell just which of these was meant to be the most intimidating, but altogether? She exuded power in a way that made him feel every ache in his bones, every reminder that he was mortal.

“You made sure of it,” he echoes. He turns to go to the side cabinet, where a key in his cuffs unlocks a box of cigars. He doesn’t quite turn his back on her, his head tilted in such a way that he always keeps one eye - the blue eye, out of courtesy - on her at all times. But he unlocks the box and selects a cigar and rolls the guillotine into his palm. “Given your dislike of how our business has proceeded thus far, Madam Leblanc, I have to wander just what your surety has done.” Snip, sharp and clean, the cigar ready for the flame. He sets down the guillotine and closes the box, before turning back to face her, to look at her with both eyes from across the room, gesturing vaguely with the cut cigar. “I will be investigating what ‘I’ have signed today, if you don’t mind.”

He turns to walk to his desk, reaching into his jacket pocket for the lighter as he does so. He exerts effort to make each step steady, to hold the lighter in an unshaking hand. Sitting in his office chair offers only minimal support, as he is too mindful that she was here, pretending to be him not moments ago, but it is enough. To sit gives him the strength to flick the cap, to bring the cigar to the flame, to inhale the sharp sweet burn down his throat.

He will not be using Rioaldonide in her presence. The cigar will have to do, to take the edge off. He will simply have to focus around the blurring of the lines. He will. 

“But before I do,” he says, exhaling smoke from the deep pull, “Let us begin with business.” He gestures with the lit cigar to the chair on the opposite side of his desk. Dryly, of course. No doubt that shiny gold pole of hers is far more comfortable than anything that Zaun could offer.

[matronoftheblackrose]

LeBlanc watches Silco’s movements and motions as she leans upon her staff and sprawls herself across it. As Silco looks at the Matron from the corner of his eye, her body language muses relaxation and amusement, but her eyes are those of a cat watching her prey.

When Silco makes his way to his side of the desk, cigar in hand, the Matron straightens her posture, her staff swivels about to make sure she continues to face him, and she maintains her smile. After Silco sits and states that now they shall discuss business, gesturing to the chair, LeBlanc nods.

“Frankly, I would be disappointed if you did not go over my work. If I were dealing with the kind of man who simply took whomever at their word and did not bother to, at least, double check the work that has been done, well- we would not be having this charming conversation in the first place.”

The Matron straightens her posture, her back leaning against the air as though there was actual support, and points at the chair opposite of Silco. With a flick of her finger, the chair lifts up and politely repositions itself out of LeBlanc’s way as she floats over to sit across from the Zaunite baron.

“So, with your respect of my time duly noted,” LeBlanc croons, staring at Silco, unblinking with her ice cold smile. “My first order of business could be to continue being coy, and ask if you prefer to be referred to as Silco, Monsieur Rynard or Monsieur Borgne, but we are past the flaunting and the posturing. You know my position, you know my thoughts, a rarity for most, so let us cut to the chase with respect to you. Despite whatever misgivings I may or may not have, what is the reasoning for your conduct? Aprés vous.”

[silcorynard]

Unprompted Meeting

The afternoon sun tries in a vain attempt to pierce the Zaunite haze to illuminate the city and its various abodes, including Silco’s office. As soon as Silco opens his door, there in his seat, at his desk, working diligently away at paperwork, is another Silco. Upon the door opening, the second Silco looks up, squints at the primary, and real, Silco, puts his pen down, organizes some of the loose papers, stands up, gestures to his seat and says in Silco’s exact voice, “I have either dealt with or cancelled your plans for the rest of the day. There is a lovely floral garden we must discuss. At your leisure, of course.” And with that, the second Silco waits to see the response.

—

He is home, and thus letting his guard down, his thoughts drift. Sevika is a few paces behind him, a loyal shadow. No-one should be in his office, so the sight of someone in his seat pulls his thoughts to an abrupt stop. A stop that renders him momentarily blinking, disarmed, to see his exact self where he should be sitting.

Sevika cannot enter the room, he decides, suddenly aware of the danger. He turns his head to tell her to leave him for a moment, and closes the door behind himself before she can object. Not that she would object. The woman was loyalty personified.

There was some Ionian saying about killing the god on the road when you met him. There was a more practical saying about being the only one in the room with your doppleganger, in case someone couldn’t tell them apart. There was a knife in his boot and - if he could bear the ache - he could fetch it and dispatch the other. Perhaps. This Second Silco’s movements with the paper were too smooth, too quick. This Second Silco was faster than he was, even if he had his medication.

It’s a moment of hesitation, the consideration of gestures and words. His fingers hover, before he rests both hands on his hips and faces this imposter.

“‘At my leisure’,” he says. He narrows his right eye, while his left remains still and staring, seeking. “It would seem it is not my leisure, if you have taken my plans from me.”

[matronoftheblackrose]

The second Silco smiles in response. His left eye, against the laws of physics, gives the primary Silco a coy wink.

“Then we are on the same page, and our conversation can be had, Monsieur Borgne.”

The second Silco holds his right hand out to his side. A gentle, purple glow appears from his palm and lengthens into the shape of a golden staff. As the second Silco walks, twirling the staff with ease, his practical boots click on the floor like stiletto heels. ‘Silco’ places his left hand on his  hip and slides his entire form into a coquettish, contrapposto stance.

“Not that I doubt the quality of your locks, the thickness of your walls or the loyalty of your workers, but since we are of the same mind at the moment, I can confidently say we like to dot our i’s and cross our t’s. I know mine are.”

‘Silco’ raps his staff against the ground and a crackling, purplish nova envelops the second Silco’s body. The room is suddenly filled by the sweet, wonderful smell of lily of the valley, a rarity in Zaun. As the energy travels, the guise of the second Silco is stripped away layer by layer, exposing the perfect, porcelain skin; his clothing morphing into a dark, violet dress with bright gold highlights that hugs his, or rather her, curves; his hands are now smooth, manicured, with nary a scar or sign of wear; the ruffling of his hair reveals a bob cut of darkest hair, and adorned upon it is a crown of the finest Noxian gold, with a deep, crimson diamond the size of a fist.

With that, the second Silco is gone, and instead stands Emillia LeBlanc, Matron of the Black Rose.

The Matron maintains her smile and her pose, and so very sweetly asks, “Are your i’s and t’s and Sevika’s crossed, Monsieur Borgne, or will you need some assistance?”

[silcorynard]

To see his left eye blink makes him flinch, makes a spark of phantom pain spasm through his face. Considering the pain he is already in, it is no great difficulty to grit his teeth and suppress the urge to twitch or to touch his scars. His hands remain on his hips, the tension in his fingers pinching into the fabric of his pants and the rough texture of his belt. It is a position he maintains - he has a reputation for maintaining his position, as a ‘union boy’, and it applies even now - as he watches the gleam and glimmer of magic, as grace and perfection emerges from the pretence of stiffness and scars.

The floral scent is offensive. The whole display is offensive to him, a condescending display of power and wealth and privilege. He is not impressed, and his set jaw does not unclench. His eyes - one sky blue, the other the red and black of molten rock - stay on hers, for all her posturing and preening. He is not distracted by scent of flower or the gleam of silk or gold or precious gems. She has come here to mock him, but he will not reel or bow.

“Madam,” he says, when she finally shows herself, calm and level and entirely unprovoked, “Whatever ‘conversation’ you wished to have, surely it could have been made through more official channels. This,” one hand lifts, and gestures vaguely at her presence, and the arrangements she had made of his chair and desk and paperwork, “Was altogether unnecessary, and, frankly quite beneath you.”

His right eye blinks. His left does not. 

“So I imagine you are not here on official business,” he says, his hand returning to his hips. “The reasons for such a visit, then, do not seem to be in my favour. You speak of little details, madam, and making sure they are in order, but I would like a glimpse of the large picture, before we are proceeding anywhere.” He aches, but he has long managed his pain. He will have an explanation before he seeks relief. Or, if the circumstance calls for it, he will seek a means to defend himself. A Noxian in the Visby-Bergen district was good news for no-one, and if the Noxian was the Mistress of the Rosy Shadows? Worse news.

[matronoftheblackrose]

The Matron listens, and maintains her smile, and waits for Silco to finish. When he does, she gives him a little shrug, her voice light, “Beneath me? Unnecessary? I see, I see.”

LeBlanc titters, her laughter like the gentle ringing of crystal bells, and continues,

“Again, I’m glad we understand each other so well. The bigger picture is both fairly simple and fairly complex. According to you, I should have gone through more official channels to commune with you. Me? I could have, certainly, but I was unsure of the degree of success. From what I understand, many a Noxian entrepreneur went through the proper channels, many Noxian politicians inquired, yet no answers were given. The Noxian imports and exports have noticeably slowed, financially affecting said stakeholders, because of how coy and how much of a tease you yourself have been in regards to such trade negotiations. The longer these negotiations fail, the more likely it could affect my business. And me in all of my egotistical nature thought, ‘Perhaps Monsieur Rynard wants to speak to me directly?’ Perhaps that was the point of all of this.  Now, I may have been mistaken, but having received no formal word, no chance for a counter offer, no room for discussion, there was not much I could do and few ways I could interpret such a strong message, not that I fully fault you for this! Some blame can be laid upon my organization and the nature of it. How easy is it to get in contact with us, after all? All we have is word of mouth or the occasional, specific contact. Speaking of whom, I will have to commend Tulip sometime.

I can take some fault, yes, but the other stakeholders who have been affected despite their want to attempt official channels to resolve this issue? C’est simple comme bonjour! At least, it should have been that simple. And the sheer implication made to our Noxian investors, financiers, politicians, generals, entrepreneurs and civilians, I think it is beneath you and unnecessary of you to conduct yourself in such a way. But I refuse to believe you, Monsieur Rynard, would conduct yourself in any such way, and that you have been wanting to make a point. I have heard you fort et clair, and I shall grant you your request.”

LeBlanc maintained her smile as she twirls her staff behind her, releasing it mid swing. She leans back and sits down on what should have been nothing, but her golden staff remains hovering mid-air, acting as a perfect seat for her as she lifts one leg over the other and folds her hands on her lap.

Though she is smiling, the Matron’s voice dips an octave as her warmth, flirtatious tones are replaced by cold professionalism, “Mettre les points sur les i, shall we discuss business? I know you have the time for it. I made sure you do.”

[silcorynard]

Unprompted Meeting

The afternoon sun tries in a vain attempt to pierce the Zaunite haze to illuminate the city and its various abodes, including Silco’s office. As soon as Silco opens his door, there in his seat, at his desk, working diligently away at paperwork, is another Silco. Upon the door opening, the second Silco looks up, squints at the primary, and real, Silco, puts his pen down, organizes some of the loose papers, stands up, gestures to his seat and says in Silco’s exact voice, “I have either dealt with or cancelled your plans for the rest of the day. There is a lovely floral garden we must discuss. At your leisure, of course.” And with that, the second Silco waits to see the response.

—

He is home, and thus letting his guard down, his thoughts drift. Sevika is a few paces behind him, a loyal shadow. No-one should be in his office, so the sight of someone in his seat pulls his thoughts to an abrupt stop. A stop that renders him momentarily blinking, disarmed, to see his exact self where he should be sitting.

Sevika cannot enter the room, he decides, suddenly aware of the danger. He turns his head to tell her to leave him for a moment, and closes the door behind himself before she can object. Not that she would object. The woman was loyalty personified.

There was some Ionian saying about killing the god on the road when you met him. There was a more practical saying about being the only one in the room with your doppleganger, in case someone couldn’t tell them apart. There was a knife in his boot and - if he could bear the ache - he could fetch it and dispatch the other. Perhaps. This Second Silco’s movements with the paper were too smooth, too quick. This Second Silco was faster than he was, even if he had his medication.

It’s a moment of hesitation, the consideration of gestures and words. His fingers hover, before he rests both hands on his hips and faces this imposter.

“‘At my leisure’,” he says. He narrows his right eye, while his left remains still and staring, seeking. “It would seem it is not my leisure, if you have taken my plans from me.”

[matronoftheblackrose]

The second Silco smiles in response. His left eye, against the laws of physics, gives the primary Silco a coy wink.

“Then we are on the same page, and our conversation can be had, Monsieur Borgne.”

The second Silco holds his right hand out to his side. A gentle, purple glow appears from his palm and lengthens into the shape of a golden staff. As the second Silco walks, twirling the staff with ease, his practical boots click on the floor like stiletto heels. ‘Silco’ places his left hand on his  hip and slides his entire form into a coquettish, contrapposto stance.

“Not that I doubt the quality of your locks, the thickness of your walls or the loyalty of your workers, but since we are of the same mind at the moment, I can confidently say we like to dot our i’s and cross our t’s. I know mine are.”

‘Silco’ raps his staff against the ground and a crackling, purplish nova envelops the second Silco's body. The room is suddenly filled by the sweet, wonderful smell of lily of the valley, a rarity in Zaun. As the energy travels, the guise of the second Silco is stripped away layer by layer, exposing the perfect, porcelain skin; his clothing morphing into a dark, violet dress with bright gold highlights that hugs his, or rather her, curves; his hands are now smooth, manicured, with nary a scar or sign of wear; the ruffling of his hair reveals a bob cut of darkest hair, and adorned upon it is a crown of the finest Noxian gold, with a deep, crimson diamond the size of a fist.

With that, the second Silco is gone, and instead stands Emillia LeBlanc, Matron of the Black Rose.

The Matron maintains her smile and her pose, and so very sweetly asks, “Are your i’s and t’s and Sevika’s crossed, Monsieur Borgne, or will you need some assistance?”

[sheriff-caitlyn]

"I broke my rules for you. Does that not mean anything?" ((Merr Chrissmass))

She eyes the woman warily. "It would mean more, madam, if I knew of or could even comprehend what kind of rules you have, and follow, and keep. Whatever has made me exceptional enough to cause an exception is not necessarily a good thing." What did you do, Evaine? What did you do?

[matronoftheblackrose]

LeBlanc has no immediate answer, a rarity indeed. The Matron glances at her staff, staring at the kaleidoscope of colours from the daylight shining through. Despite her calm demeanour, the tiniest details such as LeBlanc’s grip tightening ever so slightly and her blinks that last just a quarter second too long, signs of frustration, cracks the illusion of the Matron’s pristine decorum. With a click of her tongue, LeBlanc raps the butt of her staff on the ground and looks at Caitlyn with a cold smile . “What your exceptionalism may be, Ms. Huxley, can be discussed another day. Unfortunately, I must answer your unasked question with a question of my own.”

Ms. Huxley- Was it Emilia or Evaine speaking? The Matron has rarely referred to the good sheriff with such stiff, frigid professionalism. LeBlanc swirls her staff about, causing thin trails of violet magic to chase the crystals that hang from it, and continues, “First, using your soundest and most reasonable assumptions, pretend you know who I am. Pretend you know what I am capable of, pretend you know what I am willing to do to achieve goals. Now that you have done so, here is the scenario you must envision yourself in: you have been looking for ways to, for lack of better words, ‘instill your presence’ within certain city-states. You meet with certain powerful people. They provide good wine, good food, are professional save for the occasional puff of a undisclosed type smoke which, admittedly, is followed up by an apology. And it has been rather difficult to negotiate with these people, these barons, so to speak, because what you have is not what they want. And what they want is not something you want to provide to them. You poke and you prod, then it happens: you are given a simple way in, and a simple deal to make with the utilization of a simple, almost hare-brained scheme. With me in mind, my question is thus: would you know where Sheriff Caitlyn Huxley’s partner and confidant, Vi, currently is at this moment in time?”

[matronoftheblackrose]

What were you looking up, anon? What were you looking up on the internet?

[matronoftheblackrose]

Ommmm I have no opinion...Ommm I have no opinion...

What exactly is dissecting the new lore going to yield? Nothing. If you enjoy it you enjoy it, and it should spark your creativity and it should spark new thoughts and possibilities and you should enjoy it, and not be ashamed that you do.

[sheriff-caitlyn]

//I was on the fence about whether or not I would watch Arcane but the depiction of Viktor in the promos has helped me make up my mind.

The original Viktor was a man who was driven for worker safety and innovation. He was a man of hope and passion, but in his naivete he was used and abused by the system he lived in. His hope turns to despair… but he believes his work has such merit that he’s willing to prove it, turning himself into a living example that he is a talented doctor and engineer. But cutting off perfectly healthy limbs to replace with mechanical prosthesis is unnerving, disturbing, especially to a world that looks for only the easy way out/onwards. He’s called a mad scientist, when his only madness is what happens when hope is deferred.

His new lore has Viktor being weirdly cold, calculating, detached from the humanity he was originally bent on saving. Now, it’s all about making things more efficient, even to the point of removing free will in order to have a more focused workforce. The fact that we have a calculating individual lacking in empathy who is also disabled reeks of eugenics. There is no emotional struggle or mental anguish, there is just the inevitable slide into ‘humanity deserves to be eradicated because it is weak’. 

Making Viktor weak and physically disabled undercuts his motivations and character entirely. To offer the ‘excuse’ for his madness being ‘he tried so hard to fix himself’ makes him selfish, not to mention being entirely tone-deaf in regards to what makes someone human. The shorthand of villains being disabled is utterly abhorrent; there’s no ‘tragedy’ here, there’s just this sense of ‘well he was bound to fail because he’s not even able to walk without a cane’.  He has become a representation of failure and helplessness… and shorthanded visually as the inevitable villain. They’re even lobbing a molotov at him, because clearly we as the audience need to understand that this man is the focus of scorn and deserves to be attacked; we should also pity him because he’s bound to fail from the beginning.

We could have been given a man who was equal to Jayce in every way - mentally and physically - and looked at how differences in society, friendships, financial circumstances and so on all affected them. How a pair of idealists could become bitterly focused or radically patriotic (respectively). We could have been shown inequality between Viktor and Jayce in terms of circumstances: Viktor being smarter but having no opportunity, and Jayce having plenty of opportunity but no interest (or even coasting on reputation rather than excelling at his field). Instead, Viktor in Arcane has been turned into a foil for the Big Strong Handsome Hero Who Has No Flaws, someone Jayce can pity or try to protect, rather than a colleague or friend.

Viktor being disabled removes the fact that his original story was all about the emotional and mental struggle, about hope in a selfish world, about how far someone will go to save the lives of others at their own expense. This new depiction is tone-deaf, shallow, and undercuts all depth and value that Viktor as a character brought to the storyline of Piltover and Zaun.

[matronoftheblackrose]

Oh look it’s me again. As always please look at my previous post about if you like the lore and the story etc and so forth, but I’m going to have to crack my knuckles about this one.

So aside from mythology, history and heritage, I am also quite the fan of sci-fi, and specifically cyberpunk/cybernetics.

Viktor was done so dirty that it makes my head spin. Aside from the trope that ugly/decrepit = evil (thanks Ancient Greece) so the person *who can literally benefit* from cybernetic implants turns evil when receiving them, I believe @the-glorious-evolution-fanart has stated the obvious: “Riot also jammed [in] the heavy handed class warfare”.

So let’s talk a bit about that rather briefly. Looking at Donna Haraway’s concept that cybnertics could in fact be the equalizing mechanism between men and women, since the argument of physical attributes or even biological attributes could be stripped away by superior technology, you have the grounds for a technological eden in this way. The flipside of Donna’s own argument is that there’s a difference between everyone having access to said cybernetics is a nigh impossibility in a capitalist society and that while the lower class may have access to basic things, the advertisements for cybernetics for everyone would be like seeing Nike commercials and the like, and how class discrepancies would drive such a sharp wedge.

The only “different” people, visually, come from the Void, or from Zaun. Darius’ and Katarina’s hot topic scar do not count. Singed bandaged up is different, Mundo is different, Warwick with tubes out of his back is different (at least he’s an anti-hero werewolf!), Camille has scissor legs, and Orianna is the only “uncanny” who is ‘good’ aligned.

In Piltover, you can see the “evil” cyborgs who have clunky, intimidating cybernetics versus the “good” cyborgs like Zayne who have far more streamlined cybernetic limbs which is especially prevalent in Legends of Runeterra.

In fact let’s name the cards from LoR, shall we?

Antagonistic Cyborgs: Armed Gearhead, Corina, Augmented Experimenter Heroic Cyborgs: Sting Officer

Not much, I didn’t include robots to be fair, but let’s also add in the League champions shall we?

Antagonist Pilt/Zaun Champs: Singed, Mundo, Viktor, Camille, Edit: Urgot (He’s technically a Noxian, but if you looked at his design where would you place him?) Anti Hero: Warwick Hero(?): Orianna

Now the strawman will ask, “So Viktor’s not allowed to be a villain?”

Of course he is, but you have to look at the motivations of the character as @sheriff-caitlyn​ has more eloquently described.

The problem is now you have Viktor who is literally the one who needs cybernetic enhancements to literally survive, but he decides “what if I became evil after regaining all of my bodily functions with the freedom that an able bodied person has?” as a valid reason for his antagonism.

“But you haven’t even seen Arcane yet! You can’t know his motivation isn’t good!”

Viktor’s old motivation is the good hearted genius who wanted to do good for the world but his work was stolen from him, he was kicked out and beaten down by those he trusted most, and everything he thought he believed in was ripped away. So he made his point of his own genius, and believes the only one who can really do “good” for the world and for the incoming technological revolution is him as he is not burdened by the same ego that others have (ironic!).

This is without me implanting headcanon! This is actually Viktor’s old lore!

Hell, if you want me to throw in my headcanon, I would compare Viktor to the thought experiment of Roko’s Basilisk in that he gets so jaded by a cynical world that he believes every action he takes is ineffable fate now and will lead to the technological revolution and the transhumanist state of robotics he thinks will ascend all of humanity.

What we currently have is “do prosthetics = evil?” compared to being a necessity for living with no contrast. What if Jayce loses an arm and gets a robot arm, is he going to become evil like Ironwood and all his cybernetics in RWBY? You can even draw the parallels here with the sheer idiocy. Oh no, don’t worry, the only other named champion who has prosthetics is Camille, and she’s not evil. Right?

And the argument that “but the side characters-!” don’t give me any of that passive progressive shit. The matter of fact is that the “main characters”, and antagonists, are the ones that people care the most about and what they represent. Side characters are literally that, side characters, and their usage is that they help you explore the main characters’ motivations and everything.

Even then, that doesn’t mean if you have a prosthetic limb that makes you evil. Hell, Guts from Berserk is a key example of having a prosthetic but it’s not because he lost his arm that he became an anti-hero. You can lose an arm and call off a friendship or even swear revenge on someone because their mistake made you lose a leg and you can no longer run. That’s not evil! Of course there can be layers of nuance with this!

Also, I’ve seen Swain has been brought to the table, so I want to talk a bit about the difference between Old Swain, Daddy Khadgar Swain (current) and Viktor.

I can imagine the strawman argument of, “How come Viktor’s ‘problematic’ but Daddy Swain isn’t??” possibly being brought up. Keep in mind this is super reductive and not an actual thing I’ve seen this posted, which honestly, is excellent and kudos to everyone.

The answer is that the statement can be made that Daddy Swain has a similar problem to Arcane Viktor. Let me explain.

The Old Swain, the mystery was essentially “there”, but the popular headcanon of most Swain RP’ers and writers was that he made a deal with a demon- his leg for power. That’s not as problematic, because the character’s core value is to gain power and to maintain his power at any cost, even if he has to sacrifice his own well being and his own leg. So despite being evil, old and with a cane and a hobble, this is not as ‘problematic’ as Viktor, especially when Swain’s story led to him gaining even more power at an ever greater cost- what that cost may have been we are not entirely sure. But the veneer of Noxian excellency was what masked his true intentions.

Daddy Swain had his arm lopped off by Irelia, and was left to die by the Black Rose because of course Morally Grey Noxus needs to eat itself alive. So he lost an arm, he found a demon, and he now has his arm back and is even more evil than ever. Again, the veneer of Noxian excellency is there, but what sort of “big price” did Swain pay to gain more power?

“I’ll give you your arm back, demonic powers and insight into both the natural and supernatural realms if you promise to host me and bring down the Black Rose.”

“The organization that betrayed me, right?”

“Yeah. You cool with that?”

Why wouldn’t Daddy Swain be cool with that?

There’s no nuance with Swain. There’s no nuance with Viktor. That’s Riot’s writing in a nutshell.

There is something I feel I need to say, I don’t think the writers are writing intentionally in such a way. I’m 99% sure it’s the higher ups telling them this is what they want, write it or fuck off for the most part. And especially considering how long it takes for things to develop and come out from game development in general. Can the writers do research on shit I’ve mentioned? Do they have the time to read books and refine their understanding?

I don’t think so, and I think that’s what’s being displayed in a way. So despite *everything* I said, I don’t hold these writers too much at fault in comparison to someone like J.K. Rowling who has full creative control of her own characters, her own world and her own time.

To be doubly clear, that doesn’t excuse shoddy writing, it’s just hard to blame “a person”, “an author”, and it really is Riot, the company, who is at fault in this case.

And back to slumber I go.

[matronoftheblackrose]

C sees C

Zayne clicked his tongue as he checked his watch. The waning rays of the sun and the dimming of Piltover coincided with every second ticking closer to 6:00 PM. Corina asked all of her employees to work two hours longer this day, and the Piltover Enforcers needed to be given their signal. Zayne looked left, then right as he walked outside of the blooming factory. Past the greenery and the foliage, he took a step outside where a rat scurried across his boot. If he was as soft as a Piltvan then maybe he would have jumped in shock but nah, Zayne was used to far worse conditions than a greenhouse and mice.

Zayne rolled his left sleeve back, exposing his metallic cybernetic limb. He had to blink and squint from the sudden ray that reflected into his eyes, and in that moment, he swore something darted past him. Zayne looked behind him to find- nothing there. Other than the artificial lights of the greenhouse humming with energy and the vats of fertilizer being pumped throughout the complex. With a shake of his head, Zayne refocused on his tasks at hand.

With a twitch of his thumb, Zayne’s hextech crystal clicked to life in his ear.

“Rat to Dog? The big C remains. Mice scurrying to alternate corners in 10.”

A harsh buzz was followed by, “Roger. Begin in 10.”

Zayne clicked his thumb again, let out a sigh of relief, and looked all about to make sure no one was around. He could swear there was something just, in the corner of his eye, but no matter what, no matter how he looked, Zayne saw nothing. Even when his goggles locked on, zoomed in and identified the spewed remains of a liquid in a nearby alleyway to most likely be vomit.

With another sigh of relief, Zayne clicked his thumb again. “Sheriff? 10 until the War Storm. Do as you will.”

A smooth, soft click was followed by, “Thank you. In and out in-”

A hand came over Zayne’s mouth. Something pressed into the base of Zayne’s spine, and another hand picked the earpiece out, and in Zayne’s voice, the presence said, “Sorry, you need to wait 5. Guard schedule changed. I’ll tell the En’s storm to hold for another 10, else you’ll lose your chance.”

Zayne wanted to react in some way, but he felt his body go utterly limp- whatever martial arts this was, Zayne could not lift a limb. He also knew that the hand wrapped around his mouth certainly looked human, but was anything but. The way the fingers bent were not like a human’s, to be able to wrap so perfectly around his face to mute him completely and allow Zayne to breathe only through his nose.

A pause. “Are you sure?” the headpiece asked.

“Yes, Sheriff. Positive.”

Another pause. “We can’t miss this chance to lose C. Are. You. Sure.”

In that instant, Zayne knew that this person was toying with him. The hand flexed ever so slightly, straining Zayne’s jaw. He could feel his bones bend, and if the hand bothered to clench, Zayne knew it could crush his entire skull with pathetic ease.

“Ten thousand percent, and three quarters, Sheriff. Trust me, Sheriff.”

Zayne’s eyes went wide. How the hell did this ‘guy’ know Zayne’s dumb joke?

“Alright. 10 it is” The comm line went dead.

The presence asked, in Zayne’s voice, “May you please call your Wardens? I wish to ask them to arrive in another 10.”

Zayne’s mind raced, but his thoughts turned to pain as the hand on his jaw squeezed again.

“I honestly would love playing with you a little more, seeing how you are actually aiding my Sheriff, but I have business to attend to and we’re in a rush. I do not like violence, but today is a very personal day for me and I simply cannot be late,” the presence continued. “Do as I say, and no one gets so much as scratched. I promise you."

The hand released Zayne’s mouth, giving him the chance to spit back, “And how can I trust you?”

The presence turned Zayne around, and as Zayne’s turned paler than death, under the dimming rays of Piltover’s sun, the presence simply asked, “Do you have a choice?

---

Corina caressed the petals of her wolf’s bane flower that was exposed to an open window and to the sun, fully knowing that so very soon, the Enforcers will be arriving and her master plan could be enacted. It took some time, oh yes, but a single stroke would remove those pesky officers with ease, and then she could bring forth into Piltover-

“Miss Corina? Ma’am? May I have a word with you?” Zayne asked.

Corina turned around, her metallic nails clicking. The hum of electrical lights above flickered, Zayne with his hands in his pockets, standing between two rows of planted Noxian oleander. Corina smiled at him and beckoned him to her.

“Yes, Zayne. You may approach,” Corina cooed. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

“Well, a coupla things,” Zayne admitted as he walked forward. His right hand came up and caressed the poisonous petals of the flowers. “First and foremost, guess you know what I’m doing here, huh?”

Corina’s fingers clicked. She could feel the toxins from her suit’s canisters course through the tubes and fill the chamber of her fingertips. “No, do tell, what are you doing here?”

Zayne smirked and waved Corina off. “Playing coy? Come now.” His voice changed almost entirely- now slightly higher pitched but far more relaxed, with just a slight Demacian accent as he twirled and skipped underneath the flickering lights. “I know you’re pretending to be ‘C’, Corina. No reason to play games with me.”

Corina blinked, unsure of what just happened. “Pardon?”

“I said there’s no reason to play games with me. If this were a game and I were playing chess or some other alternate ‘intelligent’ game, you’d be playing connect four and failing to count to three,” Zayne continued with a chuckle. He threw his right hand out and batted one of the more annoying oleanders out of his way.

Corina realized just then that not only were Zayne’s mannerisms off, but the fact that he was touching Noxian oleander that she genetically bred herself, and did not react with violent itching or wheezing, or collapsing to the ground in paralyzed agony, was slightly off. “You’re not Zayne, are you?”

“And you have managed to count to two! Your intellect shocks me!” Zayne laughed. 

Corina collected herself, furrowed her brow and pointed a finger at Zayne. “Do watch your tongue, cur. You may have caught me off guard at first, but please, do you know who you are talking to?”

Zayne snorted and raised his right hand up in mock apology. “You are correct. Please forgive me, Corina Veraza the Chembaron- my deeper apologies, I mean Corina, the Mastermind of Chembarons and Zaunites.”

“Thank you. Now, what do you want?”

“Back to 1, huh? You ask questions but not the right questions.” The light flickered, Zayne’s goggles reflecting the light every little which way in the dimming room. “Let me answer your question with a question: What do you think I am here for?”

“If you were Zayne, then to raid my cultivair with Piltover’s Wardens and that daft Caitlyn. But you are not, so- honestly, you can be here to make a deal with me or to kill me. The former being far more plausible than the latter.”

Zayne clenched his jaw, took in a deep breath, and responded, “I’m sorry to say but the former is far less likely than the latter at this rate. And the latter I would daresay, is not something ‘up’ in my priority list. No, I’m here to take back what is mine, and to take something so very dear of yours.”

Corina raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes, you are here to take my magnum opus? Please, as though I would let you. I have investors that are interested in it, and if you wanted it so badly, we could have negotiated a price at a better time than this. Is that all?”

“Your magnum opus? Which one?” Zayne pointed behind him just as the electricity shut off for nearly a full two seconds. When it flicked back on, Zayne’s smile was just an inch too wide- a few teeth too many. “Your ‘magnum opus’ in your office? A glorified weed according to your own documents that would cause severe bodily waste leakage if consumed, a so very crude joke for a crude mind. No, no no. I am here to take back my reputation, and to take Meiraxa.”

Corina’s body went cold. Her actual magnum opus, the one that could in fact eliminate the Zaun Grey, named after her sister, a fact no one alive should know. Corina brought her hands up and was about to unleash her full fury when she took a moment, thought, and smiled. “Since you know so much about me, may I ask who I am speaking to the corpse that will be fed to my children?”

Zayne snapped his fingers, brought out his left, very human arm, and clapped at Corina. “Excellent! You counted back to two! Bravo!”

Corina’s rage cracked her stoic mask, but she said nothing.

Zayne continued to speak, this time in Corina’s exact voice, “You finally did your best to recognize an ant’s existence! Have you finally noticed how damn quiet it is in here? Your guards went home. Have you been too distracted to see the time? I changed it when you weren’t looking so you wouldn’t be ‘panicked’ about being time efficient. Who am I?”

Zayne pointed at himself, bowed, and said in Zayne’s voice, Corina’s voice, that Demacian voice, and a multitude of other voices in horrifying unison, “I am C. The C. You took what is mine, and so I will take that back and more.”

Corina paled.

“You took my moniker because you thought it’d be easy to lead Caitlyn here into a trap, kill all of the wardens in a single stroke, and have more freedom to pursue your stupid, selfish desires in Piltover like the so very good ecologist you are,” C continued. He laughed and wagged a finger at Corina, speaking in his Demacian voice again, “Which, I could appreciate! Imitation is the purest form of flattery-”

Corina clicked a button on her palm, and the bed of oleanders nearest to C exploded, sending wood splinters and plant matter everywhere. The detonation was small and controlled, but it was more than enough to utterly annihilate a human at point blank range. The lights flickered, the smoke parted, and Corina stumbled backwards, eyes wide with fear and disgust.

Flesh slurped, skin ripped, bones creaked and cracked, and Zayne reformed in front of Corina under the strobing light of failing electricity above. He cracked his head to realign it, which made each vertebrae of his spine crack one after the other like a macabre xylophone.

“C the Mastermind, your genius plan is to blow up people. I truly envy the stupid, you have such easy expectations to meet for yourself,” C muttered, rolling his eyes. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, imitation is the purest form of flattery, but you tried to take my credit, for my acts. Imitation is one thing, plagiarizing is an outright insult.”

“How are you alive?”

“By continued breathing, I thought they taught you that in school. No matter,” C waved Corina off. “So, before you get any more bright ideas, please do not try to kill me again, and do listen to me. When the Wardens come, I want you to give them a note, and to tell them you are not the real C, absolving you of my crimes.”

Before Corina’s fingers could twitch, Zayne’s arm lashed out, splitting apart at the seams with sickening, wet slurps, and with serrated fangs, wrapped around Corina’s hand. Corina felt no pain, but saw the severed pipe that fed the toxic ammunition into her weapon flop about on the ground.

“Please pay attention, you have only 2 minutes and twenty seven seconds left before your bombs go off.”

“I haven’t se-” Corina started, then felt one of her fingers break and something slip into her palm as the rest of her fingers were forced to wrap themselves around it. Corina bit her lip to stifle the pain as best as she could. Years of scarring from science experiments gave her an excellent tolerance of pain.

“I apologize for the brutishness but you just do not shut up. I programmed your bombs to go off on a timer rather than by your kill switch. I had to give you the one bomb to see if you were truly stupid enough to try and kill me,” C crowed. He reached into his chest, pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen from his literal ribcage that parted and gave him access to his empty body cavity, and placed it on the ground in front of him. “On your knees, write down your apology and to absolve yourself of the title of C, and we’re done here. The longer you take, the more likely this won’t end well for you.”

“On my knees? Like some common whore? Do you think-?”

“A common whore has more sense than you, a common idiot,” C shot back. “In one day I have undone your idiotic master plan and taken even your Merixia under your nose. The only contest here that is left is the contest of patience, and I am admittedly close to losing that one.”

Corina had enough. She had enough toxin in her fingers, and she knew that he could not break all of them in time to stop her from enacting another one of her kill switches. Corina pressed a button that would cause a canister on her suit to fire forward and cover C with a flesh eating toxin, only to have it shot mid-flight and shattered before it could cause anyone any harm.

Both C and Corina looked up overhead at a window, and there was Sheriff Caitlyn, looking down her sights, aiming her rifle at both of them.

C blinked. Utterly distracted by this, Corina ripped her arm free and ran away from him as Caitlyn called out.

“C and Corina, surrender yourselves and you will not be harmed,” Caitlyn called out. “You have one chance- surrender peacefully!”

Corina stumbled away, gasping and wheezing, her arm shuddering.

C looked up, smiling and laughing. “She came. She actually came. Do you see this, Corina? Caitlyn recognized me. I thought she had gotten rusty. I am glad I did not have to escalate, but how did she figure it out? Ah, wait, Zayne never says positive. It’s Zaunite slang he uses, or a two syllable word for his small mind. Nor does he ask to trust him like that. It’s trust me, followed by some animal metaphor, like a whump on a shroom hunt. It slipped my mind. I can’t believe it, without her, it slipped-”

The bombs went off. Ripping through the factory, Caitlyn caught sight of C laughing as he slipped into the fiery green hell while Corina ran the other direction. Caitlyn had to slide down from the window to avoid the explosion of glass shards, cursing under her breath. So close to get two birds with one stone. She knew that Corina posing as C would get him to surface, his ego could not take imposters. Though Caitlyn may not have caught C, the wealth of information gathered from this one event alone was almost worth the loss. And while C will resurface, Corina would not if she got away now. So close to her target, but Caitlyn took a moment to look down the alleyway to make sure the knocked out Zayne was peacefully sleeping, and saw the lights of the Wardens’ vehicles speeding on their way.

If C had not changed the time for the Wardens’ arrival, this evening would have been absolutely catastrophic. The death toll would have been in the dozens for their officers, both good and bad. Caitlyn had wanted to capture Corina before the Wardens arrived, but it seemed that C had alternate plans in mind. The only reason she was delayed was because Zayne had to be found first, taken care of and supervised. Thankfully, backup for Caitlyn had arrived in time as well.

In fact, about backup, as Caitlyn circled around to the back of Corina’s factory, she soon heard an all too familiar voice yell, “Boom! In the face!” followed by a a shriek of surprise and a loud thud.

Caitlyn came across Vi hoisting of Corina onto her shoulder, Corina who was handcuffed and limp.

“Vi, you did not strike her, did you?” Caitlyn asked.

“Nah. I was going to but she just fell forward and passed out at my awesome sight.” Vi gave Corina’s shoulder a little pat as she continued, “Who knew this wallflower back at hq was C, huh?”

“That would be because she’s not C,” Caitlyn answered. “C was in the factory.”

“Wait- really?” Vi looked back at the now violently on fire, emitting smoke clouds of a variety of chemicals, factory. “Well shit. Guess he’s dead.”

“I highly doubt it. C has escaped worse. But now to find his next target-”

Caitlyn stopped herself. She bent down in front of Corina, looked down at the criminal’s hand curled into a fist, saw the purple and white pollen that stained Corina’s skin, and Caitlyn’s eyes dilated.

“Vi, drop her right now.”

Vi did not question Caitlyn, but she did not drop Corina.

“Vi?”

“Uh...Caitlyn...” Vi’s voice lowered, she whimpered, “I- I can’t- move.”

“Noxian oleander poisoning. Who knows what Corina did to it to make it work this fast. Damn it.” Caitlyn had to take a gamble.

As Caitlyn put on a pair of surgical gloves from her satchel her mind raced. This was an interaction between C and Corina. Corina was destructive, C was not for the most part, despite the contorted expression of absolute fear that remained on Corina’s face.

Caitlyn did not know the full extent of that meeting, but knew the pair exchanged some combat, or at least an explosion, but she needed to trust her read of C’s psychology. Caitlyn reached over to unfurl Corina’s fist by trying to pull free a finger. Caitlyn’s hand brushed against Corina’s thumb and immediately noticed the digit was tightened into an iron grip. However, Corina’s fore finger was broken and loose. This meant that though it hurt Corina, Caitlyn could pull the finger free from the stiffening grip and reveal a single vial stuffed in Corina’s palm.

As Caitlyn pulled the vial free, a note wrapped around the glass fluttered to the ground. Her eyes scanned it quickly, the message was short, but the weight of its words struck her like a ton of lead. Caitlyn uncorked the vial, gave it a quick sniff before she took out a spray cap from her satchel, jury-rigged it to fit on the vial with some tape, and sprayed Vi’s arm down.

Vi’s arm slowly, and with great effort, lowered.

“A solution of 90% rubbing alcohol, with a bit of soap and water, to at least remove the pollen and the urushiol oils of the oleander. We’ll have to have the doctor look you over, but this should help for now,“ Caitlyn explained.

Vi actually laughed and gave Caitlyn’s shoulder a soft, knuckled tap with her good arm. “Crap, Cait, you really have a gadget for everything, huh? Thanks.”

Caitlyn smiled, but did not answer.

That note on the floor, that read, “The only time I will give instead of take, a gift from one old friend to another. Hope to see you soon. -C” was a promise Caitlyn knew C would keep. Yet, Caitlyn could not help but notice that C’s methods were escalating. There were no casualties this time, but would there be next time? Even an accidental one? How did C know that Corina would escape the factory if she was doused with a potent enough oleander that it caused nearly instant paralysis in Vi?

The game was afoot once more, and more dangerous than ever.

[sheriff-caitlyn]

I started this blog in 2014, as the first Caitlyn on tumblr, and obviously I’ve been through a lot of retcons and changes myself, not only adapting to Riot’s own public retcons (from the minor, like her aesthetics, to the major, like the removal of the Institute of War as an integral part of their lore) but also to my own. That’s the thing about playing a character as complex as this, is that you learn more as you go. In your interactions with others and the creation of backstory, history, and other bits of worldbuilding to better understand the world you’re in, a character goes from a handful of images and some in-game voicelines to a fully-fledged person with a complex narrative. Sometimes things change, and that’s fine. But there are some changes which… aren’t. 

For all the fingerprints I’ve put on her, she is still not my character. But I care. Sunk-cost fallacy, maybe, but I care about this character I have been involved in and I care about the direction she has been taken. So, without further ado, I’d like to delve into:

The Recent Caitlyn Update In Piltover’s New Context or, We Gotta Fetishise Police Violence, I Mean, Look At Her, She’s So Hot

Keep reading

[matronoftheblackrose]

*Wheels carcass in*

This is my second time writing this, tumblr better not delete it this time, but anyhoo, it’s me, the Matron, woo woo. I’m posting my old link to my post regarding New Lore stuff https://matronoftheblackrose.tumblr.com/post/170598076675/new-lore-my-thoughts-is-this-clickbait

Specifically this line:

What exactly is dissecting the new lore going to yield? Nothing. If you enjoy it you enjoy it, and it should spark your creativity and it should spark new thoughts and possibilities and you should enjoy it, and not be ashamed that you do.

Why am I prefacing all of this with a quote saying ignore me made by me? Because I’m going to be a bit of a hypocrite, because this is just... so completely incomprehensible to me, and I think I need to bring in the idea of irresponsible writing, and I want to bring in my own thoughts to this discussion because I think I can contribute to how irresponsible Riot is being with their writing. Because Piltover really is becoming an Authoritarian figure with literal Judge Dredd cops, and if it’s unintentionally so, then that’s almost worse than intentionally writing it.

So let’s get the big one out of the way: What’s irresponsible writing? Irresponsible writing can be done by a single author, or by an entire conglomerate of people who will throw anything at the wall to make it stick.

Evidence: The Ruination event. Can anyone anywhere give me a non-cynical answer as to why the comics, the cinematics and the LoL Client stories vary at all? Other than Riot’s own admission that canon is relative and shouldn’t be taken too literally unless when told you are to take it seriously, and you need to parse canon from non-canon within canon interactions? Or as Riot put it (SOURCE):

Why am I prefacing a Caitlyn/Piltover thing with the Ruination? Because if the only things that can be interpreted as canon are the visuals being told of the story, as defined by Riot, well then, that’s irresponsible writing.

With SWAT teams, Caitlyn being reduced from a detective to a beret wearing commando (which I realize is her commando skin in-game that’s being made into canon I guess! Is Pentakill canon now?) conducting a sting operation on Not-Zyra, the entire narrative of how Caitlyn operates can be misinterpreted. You can say, “Well she’s still a detective, just she needs some back up!” But you also have to realize what the design looks like to people seeing it.

Where this card should have been a fun reference:

To one of the most famous police officers from comics:

This is where irresponsible writing kicks in, and makes this take an authoritative spin. Notice how I didn’t refer to Riot Nasus, Riot Kayle, Riot Volibear, Riot Trundle, Riot Graves and so forth, because they can be excused as skins. What if they were police officers? Fun times were had. Those aren’t canon, neither is Commando Caitlyn, Safari Caitlyn, Pool Party Caitlyn, Battle Academia Caitlyn- Wait, Commando Caitlyn is now her canon skin? Oh.

If the only reference to Judge Dredd was a single card out of all of the officers, then sure, it’s a fun reference, it’s Judge Dredd! Hell, I have a Judge Dredd comic or two, and I’ve seen both movies. They’re fun if you divorce yourself of the bigger issues at hand and dealing with crime and all that.

But then you spend the entire time restructuring the entire narrative to fit that the cops are increasingly strict, obey the law above all else, reading the cards about wanting to enact justice at all costs, etc and so forth, you get stuck in a really shitty position. 

What’s the shitty position you may ask?

Caitlyn: Snarky, willing to shoot to kill, organizes a SWAT team to take down the villain like a cop vs a detective

Caitlyn’s Officers: SWAT officers with heavy weaponry, battering rams, dressed to look like Judge Dredd or wearing literal goggles and berets and ridiculously high-tech gear.

Typical Piltover Officers: Look like your Victorian British officers wearing ye olde helmets and caps (in all 2 cards that they exist in, “Patrol Wardens” and “Gotcha”).

How do you justify the visual language being told? “Well yes we have all of this violent, pro-police imagery where the heroine is also a bad ass superhero who shoots to kill, like her in-game character (ignore the pacifists or other wildly inconsistent characters! Like Riven being written to never want to kill again but kills in client!).

So, you may be wondering how this all ties into “irresponsible writing”. Technically, if Riot says Caitlyn is still the calculating, investigative detective that her lore originally made her out to be, then I will tell you a secret: They are full of shit and are lying to you. Don’t believe them. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.

What kind of “detective” is Caitlyn?

How many shoot-outs did Columbo get into? Name one. How about Monk? He kicked some people but never shot anyone. Name how many shoot outs Sherlock Holmes got into where he’s aiming to kill his target (Spoiler: Sherlock Holmes never shoots his gun, ever, in any of the stories or even in the BBC Sherlock but I’m not opening that latter can of worms).

Dick Tracy, the detective, most certainly did shoot people! I have 20 volumes of the classic Tracy where he performs detective work and kills the villain, sometimes impaling a Nazi on the American flag as it waves majestically (an actual scene!), and that’s the kind of detective Dick Tracy was, and is.

So, what kind of detective is Caitlyn meant to be? Like Dick Tracy?

Then congratulations, you’ve picked the second most pro-police detective comic you can possibly choose from, who had a strong jingoism streak especially in the 1940′s, other than Judge Dredd who is hilariously censored at every turn.

So what’s the visual language being told about Caitlyn? I’m glad you asked! Because I can actually disprove every point I made, I just remembered that there was a cinematic with Caitlyn in it that pre-established this kind of visual. So Caitlyn actually had a pretty strong background regarding all of this, and her visuals, in The “Awaken” music video. If you remember correctly there’s a section where Caitlyn is doing a sting operation to capture Jhin. Here, let me screencap it for you:

As you see, Caitlyn bursts in with guns drawn and- Wait, is that Camille coming in with a secret beret’ed military squad that are all dressed *exactly* in the same uniform as Caitlyn’s squad is? Oh man, what kind of visual language is being presented when the enforcer of Clan Ferros is described like this:

Furthermore, it was only through espionage, intimidation, and murder that Clan Ferros held its monopoly on this priceless commodity, and ensured its uninterrupted production in Zaun Crest, maintaining the family’s place in Piltover's illustrious Bluewind Court.

But what is canon since it can be interpreted in so many ways?

Like I said before, and I will say it again, if you enjoy the new lore, then enjoy it. It should spark your creativity and it should spark new thoughts and possibilities and you should enjoy it, and not be ashamed that you do. 

But do not fall for irresponsible writing. Be willing to look beyond the surface of the flashy visuals, and see what the narrative is saying with its words, its choices, and even its visual language and how all of that can be interpreted by a contemporary audience.

Bonne nuit.

[matronoftheblackrose]

The King of Death

The souls swarmed around Thresh. The eternal Harrowing, the fall of Viego, all of this immense power. Truly, he could now truly and fully understand the meaningless nature of mortals and their struggles. After all, who could oppose him? His lantern shone with a brilliant, green light. Even the gravedigger could do naught but shamble away-

“Warden,” Yorick rumbled.

Thresh’s eyes snapped down and glared at Yorick. He dare stand here? In front of him?

“What are your thoughts, Gravedigger? Dare you think you can oppose me?”

Yorick shrugged. “What is your goal, Warden?”

“I know of your goals, Gravedigger. You cannot oppose me.”

“My goals?” Yorick stroked his beard, not making eye contact with Thresh. “Do you know them, Warden?”

Thresh cackled. He threw his lantern down on the ground in front of him, held his arms out to his sides and cast in the eerie glow of the Ruination itself, he demanded, “All you and the rest of Runeterra can only writhe, like a worm on a hook, before me. What need do I have to know of your goals?”

With a sudden, violent swing, Yorick struck Thresh’s perfect jawline with his shovel. Thresh had withstood the entire barrage of every single bloody Sentinel of Light with ease, he made no effort to resist a shovel.

Bone cracked.

Thresh’s head twisted from the impact. His eyes burned with rage as he slowly looked down at Yorick, who returned the intensity with a glare of his own.

“You get that one. Now to see what is still flesh, and what is bone, as I flay you.”

Yorick shook his head. “No. You do not,” turned around, and hobbled away from Thresh.

Thresh tried to pull his arm back to prepare his scythe, only to find his body unable to move. In fact, now that he thought about it, he was staring at his body from a wholly unique perspective. Thresh could not comprehend the literal, out of body experience, he was undergoing.

“There is a reason why Viego shed so much of the souls, and why it was so hard to ‘catch’ him. An ancient secret, even older than the Blessed Isles themselves,” Yorick said, the Maiden of the Mist encircling him, laughing and sobbing. “I may not be able to kill you yet, but when I can, I will. For now, I can cut down your misinformed ego.”

Thresh was about to howl his curses at Yorick when an iron gauntlet grasped his spirit’s throat. As Thresh was yanked back, Yorick gave Thresh one more disinterested look, but his words were colder than the deepest grave.

“Give Sahn-Uzal my regards.”

---

Thresh felt his soul fly through time and space, with all of his hundreds of thousands of souls scream in unison as they trailed behind him. Eventually, Thresh was thrown down onto an ephemeral ground that felt as solid as any stone. 

‘My liege, I bring to you an oddity,’ a voice whispered.

Thresh snapped his hands down, his scythe and lantern blasting into view, and he swung at the one who dared manhandle him. Strangely enough, the offender was similar to Hecarim and the Iron Legion- a foe built almost entirely from a humanoid suit of plate mail with a pale blue light that bloomed from within, but as Thresh’s scythe sank into a soul, the Warden knew this was just more food for his lantern. With a hard pull, Thresh ripped out the soul from the armor and guided it to his lantern, and absorbed it.

Dead silence as Thresh finally took in his surroundings: It was a new realm for him, sure, but it was... actually wonderful. All mimicries of life, all built entirely from the energy of mortal souls, from the paved ground of a castle and the tapestries depicting battles on the walls, that seemed to be simultaneously as close to Thresh as they were far from him, to the hundreds of armed, heavily armored soldiers surrounding him. That Yorick was a strange fellow, but the Warden could see he was in fact, being rewarded by the gravedigger. Thresh would make sure that Yorick’s torture would be delightful agony for such a beautiful gift.

‘He has power here?’ a soldier whispered.

‘No. He dares have power here,’ another whispered.

Thresh looked about, rattled his chain a little bit, and asked, “Which one of you brought me here?”

‘You know not?’

The soldiers laughed in unison at Thresh, making his sickly blood boil.

‘Foolish Banquet of Delights, only an emissary, or our liege, can do so,' another soldier answered.

“Liege?” Thresh spat the title out with a cackle. “There is a king here? How curious. What is a king to a god? Bring him here, I will claim this realm for my own.”

The soldiers went dead quiet. They pulled their spears, bows and their entire armoury of weaponry free and pointed at Thresh.

Thresh struck first. Swinging his scythe, he cut swathe after swathe of soldiers down with ease. Each spirit detonating as he pulled himself into them, absorbing hundreds of souls. Even here, Thresh could feel his strength grow, the power of the lantern absorbing souls with every strike he made.

“Kneel before your God, you wretched mongrels. I will give you the leash that you all deserve.”

A single toll of a big black bell roared in the distance. The soldiers pulled back, sheathed their weapons, and knelt to the ground. Thresh could not help but grin- he already conquered an entire realm in such a short time.

A voice sang, “When the bell begins to ring, it means the time has cometh for one to go to the temple of the king.”

A wild haired man walked towards Thresh, pointing at him, mania in his eyes as he continued, “There! In the middle of the circle of our legions he stands! There he stands- searching! Seeking!”

Thresh swung his chain once, twice, then heaven the scythe at the man. 

And with just one touch of the man’s trembling hand, Thresh’s scythe stopped midair, and fell to the ground.

“The answer will be found,” the man continued as he brought his hands up to the sky of silently screaming souls. “Heavens, help us. Spare us the daylight of life this man brings.”

And like the rush of a thousand, metal wings grinding and screeching, a mace the size of a colonnade slammed into the ground. Along with the mace, with a flick of iron wings that sent a cascade of shrapnel flying every which way, a giant of a man appeared from the soul-filled air.

“Nightfall has arrived,” the man concluded, bowing to the ground in supplication.

A head or two taller than the gigantic mace, swathed from head to toe in the heaviest armor, with the framework of a ribcage composing of his chest plate, an iron revenant stood before Thresh.The iron man stared at Thresh, who may have been dwarfed in stature, but the Warden certainly puffed his chest out like a boy trying to impress his date, in response to the giant’s arrival.

Thresh pointed at the man before him, “Are you the so called king of this realm?”

The iron revenant did not respond.

Thresh tightened his grip on his scythe. “Are you or are you just another pitiful soul for my collection?”

The iron revenant looked to its side, at the prostrated man, and said in a deep voice, that sounded eerily similar to the toll of a bell, “Dio, I request a song: Hymn of Valor.”

Dio stood up, bowed again, scuttled to the back and in seconds, a song that quickened the heart and pumped one’s adrenaline flooded the realm.

Thresh pointed at the iron revenant and said, “Come out and play, liege.”

“I will ask this once: Who marked you to be brought here?” the revenant asked in response.

“It does n-?’ was all Thresh could manage before a spectral claw the size of the revenant grasped him, pulled him forward with loud, shrieking steel on steel, and threw him to the ground.

Before Thresh could respond, he felt the full weight of the mace slam into him. He felt his body creak, his soul crack, and it would have been a fatal blow if it were not for all-

“One million, three hundred fifty seven thousand, six hundred and sixty seven souls empower you.”

Thresh’s eyes went wide. He threw his scythe out, hooking the revenant’s armor, and tore his chain with all of his might. There was the clink of metal breaking, which elicited a gasp of shock from onlookers. Thresh was about to say something when he felt his body leave the ground, and he saw he was about to be golf swung in the face by the mace.

Thresh threw his lantern and pulled himself towards it, his face narrowly missing the swing- but his legs felt the full impact and shattered instantly.

“One million, three hundred fifty seven thousand, six hundred and sixty six now empower you,” the iron revenant continued.

“How dare you do this to me- I am your god! You will kneel before me and I will add your soul to my collection!” Thresh spat out as his legs reformed and he stood back up.

The iron revenant went quiet. It hoisted its mace up to its shoulder, and pointed at Thresh. “You may be a collection of souls, but not a single one of them is perfected, Thresh of Helia.”

Thresh felt something in his head- it must be the newly formed flesh. An ancient, long forgotten sensation that the Ruination discarded alongside the lizard brain mortals had.

“Though misery loves company, you have what is mine. I will take them back.”

The iron revenant swung his mace down again, almost clumsily so. Thresh was able to sidestep the strike, only to find the giant mace change trajectory mid-air, and aimed directly at his lantern.

With a loud crack, the lantern burst with a flood of souls that all flew to the iron revenant and prostrated themselves to it.

“Hobbyist of Helia, of the Blessed Isles- what is a false god to the true King of Death?” The iron revenant raised his mace above his head, and with a bellowing bell toll, demanded, "Who am I, my children of the grave? Who is your liege, sing my praises, conquered souls.”

And the voices chanted,’Mordekaiser! Mordekaiser!’

Thresh felt a bead of sweat drip down the side of his head. What in all of the hells was this? Wait, he remembered something- Yorick said something about Sahn someone? Duke Vladimir of Camavor related an old legend about a warlord-

Then Thresh was struck yet again. This time Thresh braced himself as best as he could, but his lantern could not sustain the force.

“One million, two hundred fifty five thousand, five hundred and thirty two left,” Mordekaiser stated as more souls fled from Thresh’s collection and swirled about him in a cacophony of metal shards. “I will accept your servitude whenever you decide, godling.”

Thresh decided he did not care who this thing was- no one steals from his collection. Whipping his chain about, Thresh let out a torrent of vicious strikes- each blow detonating a soul that could tear entire buildings down. Yet after the tenth blow, Mordekaiser grasped the chain, and snapped the scythe, which joined his encircling aura of metal and death.

“Your sickness sustains me. Your pain delights me. Your lifeline is severed, death is creeping, and there is none to save you.”

“For there is none as great as he, the Kaiser of Morde!” the soldiers all cried out in unison.

Thresh staggered back. He could get out, his lantern beamed with the energy of souls when he was struck in the chest- collapsing it a thousand times over as more souls fled from his collection, repairing his broken and battered body.

“One million, seventy nine thousand, eight hundred and seventy nine left. You shall serve me too, spirit.”

Thresh hissed, “What are you? How can you have this much power? Not even Viego-”

“I am the metal that Noxia was built on. I am the monster that is whispered in the ears of children. I am the reason that man fears the dark of the forests and the light of fire. The songs of sirens are sung to my appeasement, and I bless alll with great suffering. I am Mordekaiser, and the same magic that chains you to this realm frees me to walk between.”

Thresh looked about, realizing the full error of his ways. This really was the realm of death, and this man- no, this creature, was not only able to exist here, but it cultivated the power of death itself. The Shadow Isles may be undeath, but that was why Mordekaiser was able to harm him at all. He needed to escape, he needed a moment-

Thresh narrowly avoided the next mace strike as he backed away from the advancing Mordekaiser, his mind racing. So long as Mordekaiser was focused on him, Thresh could not really concoct anything remotely clever. Wait.

“Yorick the Gravekeeper has asked me to send his regards to Sahn-Uzal,” Thresh threw out, hoping it would land.

And it did. Mordekaiser paused in his stride. “Yorick, you say. So that is how you were marked. I see.”

That was enough breathing space. Thresh detonated his lantern once more, cursing at how many souls were about to be lost, as the spirits ripped open a portal to the living world. With enough energy utilized, so long as the souls themselves were fully consumed, Thresh could walk between these realms at the mere cost of a couple hundred thousand or so souls in theory.

Mordekaiser’s gauntlet snapped out, almost grasping Thresh, but his fingers caught nothing but air as Thresh disappeared from view. Whatever this Mordekaiser was, he needed more information. He needed to interrogate Vladimir, he needed to collect more souls, he needed more power. How dare someone lay claim to his realm, when Thresh was the Warden- nay, the God of Souls.

“Mordekaiser, my liege...” Dio started, but said nothing else. He would not dare question the King of Death.

“The Gravekeeper, one of the only men to earn respect, has marked him as a target of interest. When I return, the hobbyist shall collect more souls.”

“And the more souls one dare has, the more power you have against them, Kaiser of Morde, a 6v4 you could say,” Dio said with a nod and a smile.

Mordekaiser glared at Dio, silencing the man. What a strange statement to make when everyone here knew about it. But that was the problem, only people here knew about his might. Mordekaiser was now in deep thought- perhaps it was time to return to Runeterra and take back what was rightfully his.

[matronoftheblackrose]

Matron of the FTSIO Rose (Ruination Event)

Howling banshees flooded the streets of Noxus. The screams of pain and the cries of rapturous joy that roared from Draven’s arena made even the worst of battles seem like a baby’s lullaby in comparison. Meanwhile, high, high, high, high, oh so very high in her tower, the Matron of the Black Rose, in all of her luxurious lingerie, watched the mists of the Ruination spread throughout Noxus. Well, at least this meant that Mordekaiser was not arriving, ergo all of this meant so very little to her.

The Matron swirled her glass, sniffed her wine, and was about to go back to her seat when the crystals of her staff blinked in rapid succession. With a heavy sigh, LeBlanc tapped one of the crystals.

“Dare I ask if it is the simping simpleton Viego the ruined prince who dares to interrupt my break?”

“Paaaardon, Matron?” the voice answered. “It is agent Slivered Thorn.”

“So it is. If it were the Ruined King he would have launched into a silly diatribe and threats. My apologies, Slivered Thorn.” LeBlanc drank deep of her wine. “What is amiss?”

“Aside from the Ruination?”

“Yes, besides one of the many catastrophic events that will happen to Runeterra that is in progress.”

“If I may dare, you seem a little more... relaxed, than I expected.”

“Oh please, darling. If this had any lasting consequences I would maybe consider acting in some significant way.” It was how many people dying? A few hundred? A few tens of thousands? It was so hard to tell what the severity of this event was.

“Then I should let you know... some beings broke into your uh... your...” Slivered Thorn went silent.

LeBlanc quirked an eyebrow and rolled her glass at her staff. “Well, broke into my what?”

“Your wine cellar, Matron. And it seems to have been robbed.”

LeBlanc tilted her head back and let out a low groan of annoyance. “Which wine cellar, Slivered Thorn?”

“The one whose password required you to tell your deepest, darkest secret that you have never told a soul.”

“Dare I ask what the secret was?”

“Apparently, whoever opened the door...” Slivered Thorn took in a deep breath and continued, “Peed themselves until they were 8 years old.”

LeBlanc gawked at her staff, finished her glass of wine, and poured herself another glass. “Oh my Me, that is painfully stupid.”

“It is.”

“And it worked?”

“Yes, Matron.”

“Why did that work? Never mind. Do remind me to change the question and password for that one. My goodness.” LeBlanc collected herself, and asked the devastating question. “How many bottles were taken, Slivered Thorn?”

“One.”

“One?” LeBlanc pressed her knuckles to her chin. That wine cellar had a lot of decent wines, yes, but it was also the wine cellar full of half opened bottles. And only one bottle? The only bottle she could think of was-

“Was it the Camavor’s Wrath vintage bottle?”

Dead silence.

“Of course it was.” The Matron tapped her forehead, “Of course he went for that one. You share a bottle and a half with a queen and engage in rigorous queenly intercourse and a thousand or so years later her simpering husband wants to smell her essence. What will he go for next, Isolde’s bathwater?”

Slivered Thorn let out an awkward cough. “Matron, may I speak frankly?”

“You do not seem to be much of a Frank but you may speak candidly.”

“You are not maintaining your usual... decorum,” Slivered Thorn stated with just a twinge of fear in his tone. “Are you... erm, have you been partaking of... your own spirits?”

LeBlanc laughed. “A pun, Slivered Thorn? As the youths may say, I am currently, ‘crunked’.”

“Matron, why?”

“Because it will resolve itself. It is not as though we have Darius, Talon (the street rat), Katarina Du Couteau (the whorish traitor), Cassiopeia Du Couteau (gods know where that super slut went to), Kled (oh yes he exists), Samira who was paid to do anything but is probably blowing her profits, the self righteous exiled one, Rell the young, heroic bint, and- must I go on? For goodness’ sake, we have a third unnamed Grand General in a triumvirate who is currently being smothered by whores and/or ghosts.” LeBlanc rolled her wine about in her glass yet again as she stated, “So, like my good, dear friend Cersei once said with a glass of wine in hand, ‘FTSIO’.”

“Pardon, Matron? FTSIO?”

“Fuck this shit I’m out. I’m going to enjoy wine, watch over Noxus and enjoy time with a feathered companion.”

Slivered Thorn went quiet for a moment, and slowly asked, “Where is Grand General Swain, Matron?”

LeBlanc’s door clicked open.

LeBlanc looked over, smiled, and answered, “Sorry, the connection’s bad. Keep alive and report later. Tah tah.”

Before Slivered Thorn could respond, a demonic hand grasped the Matron’s staff and flung it to the side. A bathed Swain with shining, slicked back hair stood in front of LeBlanc, his towel barely wrapped around his pelvis as though it simply hung off a certain prodigious organ.

“Time to experience your Ruination, Emilia,” Swain growled.

LeBlanc slugged her wine down, jumped into bed, and thought, ‘Eh, Noxus will take care of itself.’

And it did.

No seriously it did.

[matronoftheblackrose]

An Overdue Conversation

No need for smoke- there was plenty from the Ruination’s mists.

No need for mirrors- there was no way to trick the dead or the insightful.

The Matron of the Black Rose herself actually stood at the gates of Noxus, staring down the legions of the dead surging towards the city’s gates. Calm, collected, and bored, she waited.

As the dead approached, as the thundering hooves of the cavalry thundered to her, they fell quiet immediately upon seeing LeBlanc. Hecarim was the only one who dared trot close enough to loom over the Matron.

“Matron of the Black Rose. Queen of Traitors. The Whoremother of Assassins. The Toxic Trull. The-”

“If you are going to title me with the entire slut nomenclature then I am sorry to disappoint you, Hecarim, darling, but I will have to cut you short,” LeBlanc interrupted. With a sway of her hip, she bumped the shaft of her staff to give it the momentum for a quick twirl, Sparkles of violet light trailed the crystals on her staff’s head as she pointed it at the Shadow of War. “Also, trull? Really? I have not been called as such for a literal millennia.”

“Speaking to the Sovereign of Subterfuge requires little respect from even the lowest worm. Begone, none of your tricks shall sway our charge or change your fate.”

“Tricks?” LeBlanc giggled her cascading, crystalline laughter. “You should know, Hecarim, that if I were lying, if I had some elaborate scheme... well, what would it be? I am here, in the flesh, able to be ran through and slain with ease.”

Hecarim’s ground his teeth, the metallic fangs screeching as he did so. He pointed his glaive at the Matron... but did not strike. “You are, indeed, here. Your trick, therefore, must be some other ruse.”

“You are most definitely correct, oh astute Hecarim. My ruse, dear, is I want to speak to Viego.“

“King Viego, wench,” Hecarim hissed.

“King Viego, you hollowed out show pony,” LeBlanc shot back with a smile. Her voice shifted, ever so slightly, ever so perfectly, as she continued, “I think it is time to have a proper conversation with our beloved king.”

“Isolde?” the army of undead monstrosities whispered in unison.

Hecarim raised his glaive, aimed it at LeBlanc’s heart, and slammed his weapon down with all of his might- only to find his arms unable to move. His jaw moved, screeching and grinding, as he spoke another’s words.

“You dare speak in her voice! You dare! You-! You... You remember. You remember her voice.”

“Ah, Viego. Fantastic, I can speak to the king and not his messenger.” LeBlanc clapped her hands together and pointed behind Hecarim in that voice, “Yes, my beloved king, I do remember Queen Isolde’s voice. I remember her face, I remember her curves, and I remember every little bit about her. My memory, moi bleu roi, is perfect after all of these years. While yours, it wanes at times...”

“What is it you offer me, Emilia? To put yourself forth so brazenly, so bravely, it is, how do you say- stupid of you. So, uncharacteristic.”

LeBlanc took in a deep breath. Evaine was scared, oh yes- most certainly, but this was a matter so far out of her hands. This was a matter Emilia of all beings wanted to deal with. The name alone, Isolde... what a matron she would have made. What an ancient pain, such an ancient incident... and how vile Viego was. Isolde was such an odd duck, and the memories of her face, her voice, even her death, were all still so fresh to the anicent entity that was LeBlanc. Only one other had ever made such a deep mark in the Deceiver’s psyche, and she had since reunited with him under Noxus. In fact, the Deceiver knew He was watching her, seeing this unfold. It took so very long, but to give Noxus more time to prepare for the Ruination? This had to be done. The deal had been struck, and LeBlanc was loving this. To see Matron Emilia LeBlanc, the Deceiver Herself, love anything else other than Him, it honestly unnerved Evaine.

In fact, the Matron was loving every single second now. If it had been a year ago, a month ago or even a week ago, perhaps she would have still feared the arrival of the Ruined King. But now, now it was almost time that this insufferable, screaming man child who threw tantrums when he did not get his way would finally get what he deserved. The thousand year old mistake finally corrected. Viego was meant to die, but when poor, stupid, sweet Isolde stepped in the assassin’s way- in Her way... It was not even a poisoned blade... Isolde, why-?

“Delaying your death with silence? I have seen knights and worms grovel as such, but you, Emilia? Delaying with noble silence?  I must admit, time has been unkind to you in some ways. Hecarim aches to release you of this mortal coil.”

“Oh come now, you have no appreciation of dramatic build up?” LeBlanc roleld her eyes. “Very well, King Viego, this is my offer: If you back away from Noxus, go attack Demacia or whatever other backwater country you desire, I shall gift you one of the most important things you can ever own: A memory.”

Hecarim bellowed a laugh, one shared by the thousands of shrieking spirits.

“Your memories mean nothing, Deceiver. You will not implant anything, I know all of your tricks.”

“Then it is good that I did not mean an intangible memory.” LeBlanc reached to the side of her dress, gave it a gentle tug, and pulled free from the folds of her cloak a simple, blue haired doll and a pair of scissors. “I offer you a first memory.”

[matronoftheblackrose]

Excuse you? Excuse you??! (Re: Rell and Viego)

To say the Matron was a patient woman would be like stating the sky was blue, or water at room temperature was wet, or that the Matron of the Black Rose shadowy organization who has lived for centuries had a semblance of an idea for patience. To truly ‘surprise’ the Matron one could theorize it would be as difficult as to change the colour of the sky to the colour splurr, or converting water to plasma.

In a dark private room, at a desk, illuminated by the violet magical spiderweb thrumming with panic, sat the Matron of the Black Rose with a bottle of vintage Noxian wine and no glass.

“Alright, darling... Let us try this one more time...”

“Lukas was killed-”

“Let us try this one more time, from the beginning, so you can try in your mewling state to tell me why I should care about any of this,” LeBlanc interrupted. She tipped the mouth of the wine bottle to her lips and took a mouthful of the delicious, soothing crimson. The panicked thrum of her network underneath the desk cast a colourful array of neon reds and pinks into the void. “The Black Rose academy has lost its prized student, who discovered the truth, who knows who some of us are and is currently hunting down all those who wronged her, yes? Including the mentor Lukas who has been found dead? And, correct me if I am mistaken, and I rarely am, Rell is the product the Null project- the project that I said required more drastic measures of mind control, can now control the shards of Noxian steel that soldiers have died in battle to have the honor of looking upon such craftsmanship, and is killing the remnants of the Black Rose Null Academy?”

“...Yes, Matron...”

“Do you realize- do you realize how stupid this is? You must understand because you are not here, in person. You must understand because I have not summoned you here so I can weigh you down in a bathtub of milk and honey and let the maggots eat you.”

“Matron, please-”

“Please. What.” LeBlanc took another swig of her wine. Her web thrummed brighter and ever more panicked. “Please what? Mercy? You are not dead, are you. An explanation? I have heard your explanation and it is lacking. Another chance? Why do you think you are not dead?”

“...Matron? You- Are you serious?”

“And now you doubt me! Me!” LeBlanc let out a single giggle, like a nail swiftly dragged across metal. “Darling, what do you think is going to happen? This Rell is going to kill the rest of you idiots, then she will try to find the rest of us which she will not be able to do. She cannot because, as a precaution, I do not allow other Black Rose members to disclose other sectors locations else your hearts rupture as stated in our contract, and to quickly add it will be a memory you will quickly forget soon after we finish our discussion. And if she somehow does, if she somehow manages to discover where I am, bursts into my chamber and yells for my head, what shall she magnetize? My staff? My gold staff? My gold circlet? Perhaps she shall strip me of my silken dress but she is too young for me, and gods know what those writers and artists will conceive of. It is as though I approved of a project that had a hyper specialization in eliminating a specific target- Oh wait!”

The Matron took another long drink of wine, some of the placating crimson splashed down and marred her desk.

“So the one thing we wanted her to destroy, the Shadow Island wraiths and Mordekaiser, she is fully capable of doing so? And if Mordekaiser ever decides to march on Noxus, your imbecilic daughter will protect the people. So, why should I stop her? She will do her job no matter what. So, dearest Headmistress of the Black Rose Academy, who I shalt be considering to transfer to the sewage division, why. Should. I . Care.”

“I- Matron, my Matron, I-”

“I-I-I- I have not ripped your tongue out nor has the cat stolen it. Speak in full sentences. What do you wish, to redeem your mistake? Do so! If you are killed, then fine, we are in the same position. What is it you are looking from me, support? This is your sewage, this is your spawn, you will-”

The violet web shook as violently as it could, nearly striking the back of LeBlanc’s chair. With a sharp exhale, the Matron smiled and said, “I apologize, there is another call I must take.”

LeBlanc snapped her fingers, severing the thread with the ex-Headmistress of her school. What a terribly stupid idea that somehow still spawned the exact pawn they needed. Oh no people will discover the Black Rose runs academies that gives them superpowers how terrible. Oh it takes childrens’ souls then why does Rell not give those abilities up? Oh noooo.

Oh well, this one could not be any more stupid.

“Yes, darling- the Matron is here and available-”

“Greetings, Imposter.”

LeBlanc nearly spat her wine out. She glanced at her bottle, saw its year, and swallowed the contents to the best of her ability. With a gasp and a wheeze- That voice.

“Viego?”

“So you do remember me...” A soft chuckle that echoed and reverberated into itself a thousand sultry times. “I thought it to be fair to let you know that I shalt be coming for my Isolde...”

“By every dead god, a thousand years dumped in the ocean has not diluted your thirst,” LeBlanc snapped. “Have you heard the phrase ‘she is just not that into you’?”

“A thousand years ago perhaps we could have exchanged the witty quips, but alas- this is not an exchange between equals. I simply thought to give you one last chance. I am coming, you will die, and you will fulfill your side of the bargain. See you soon, Emilia.”

The line went dead, as the subordinate’s soul was torn asunder.

In the dead, dark room, with the light barely able to illuminate LeBlanc’s heels, the Matron laughed. She tapped the only green thread in her entire violet web, followed by a violet thread.

“Oh Headmistress, are you still there?” LeBlanc asked as she beckoned at the air. Another bottle of wine, a fine bottle of rosé this time, with two crystal glasses.

“Yes. Matron, something has gone terribly wrong. The Black Rose Academy has fallen, and I-”

“I know all of this, of course I do.”

“You...do? How?”

“Darling, you are asking how I, the Matron, would know?” LeBlanc uncorked the bottle and poured the wine into their glasses. They needed a bit of time to breathe, much like her subordinate.

“My apologies, Matron.”

“I have given it thorough, deep thought, and I have decided to not have the nape of your neck meat hooked so you could watch as you were slowly lowered into a pit of ravenous beasts that take the form of your daughter who would disembowel you.”

“I- Thank you, Matron.”

“No, rather, do figure out where your Rell is ‘about’. And let me know if there are any other students of your school that are still around. I need the appropriate bait.”

“Bait, Matron?”

“Oh yes. Bait. Rell still has her purpose. I assume you have no objections... Baroness?”

“Pardon, Matron?”

“How does the title of Baroness sound to you, rather than Headmistress? Along with all of the perks of nobility, along with all of the money, the wealth- the men, far greater than that meatstack of a husband you have.”

“What do you need me to do?”

Matron of the Black Rose Emilia LeBlanc looked at the green eyes approaching her from the darkness. A green, ephemeral hand reached out and picked up the glass of rosé. LeBlanc gave the Grand General a smirk.

“Rell just needs to fulfill her purpose...”

[matronoftheblackrose]

New Lore? My thoughts?! Is this clickbait??!

No. As in no, it's not clickbait, I just titled it as such because I can and I'm cruel.

So! Let's get into this, shall we?

My thoughts on the new lore are...are...

Unimportant.

I've been lurking here and there my darlings and dears, and I have kept silent watch. So, what am I going to be posting about if my thoughts on the new lore is unimportant? Well, I'm going to detail why it's unimportant.

What exactly is dissecting the new lore going to yield? Nothing. If you enjoy it you enjoy it, and it should spark your creativity and it should spark new thoughts and possibilities and you should enjoy it, and not be ashamed that you do. I stopped all of my posting because well, I do not enjoy it and even if I do a Mr. Plinkett equivalent style rant, what's it going to actually yield? Nothing, because my opinion's not been asked for, and whatever my thoughts may be on it, well, do you really care? Really? Does someone dissecting it into the core and the meat of it really sway your thoughts and your opinions? The answer's no, because this is not the platform for it.

So, something I've been seeing from the sidelines is how characters are changed, and I won't lie I've done that too. But hey, at least Swain's still the leader of Noxus, and hasn't gone and become a vigilante like Warwick nor has he gone and ascended and lost his native country like Soraka who is now Targonian in her new updated biography but keeps her old biography when you click onto the League entry. Normally I'm not an extremist in the sense of "You must hate everything, or you must love everything", but I think by this point it should be evident to everyone (except Riven because no one remembers her in writing) that the lore is going to change for every champion. You have to accept that it'll happen because it's not your world, not your work, and if you want to keep at it then go ahead, but that's why it's a fandom- you're the fan.

Now I'm not one to defend the new lore (go ahead and read my archives, I hide nothing- or do I? dun dun dun), but I need to make something very, very clear: Noxus being related to Rome is not something I disagree with. Is making them more "morally grey" a bad thing? Maybe it is, maybe it's not, and although they don't have the literal goddamn skull mountain anymore (Thank fuck they got rid of that, that thing was stupid) they have a literal Palpatine Khadgar Hot Daddy Sauron's Human Form Fan Idea as the leader. Triumvirate or not, they want to pull historical references, there were 2 Roman triumvirates: Caesar's and Octavius'. Guess how those went- the 3 people bickered, turned on each other and one came out on top. If that doesn't happen with the literal Love Child of Darth Vader Ozzy Osborne Motherfucker at the helm of all this then colour me surprised.

Is Riot's writing nuanced? No. As far as what I have read it is not nuanced, it is not deconstructing the genre it is not groundbreaking it is not subverting expectations. Didn't before, didn't now, won't in the future. However, when criticizing the writing, something I want to make abundantly clear is this: Make sure you know what you're talking about.

Reading Noxus' colonial methods of conquering places and forcing people to fall under their foot or be crushed, is it problematic? You can say the word choice is off, but the point is being missed. Is it being justified? Maybe, but is that because of sloppy writing or because they're trying to secretly inject the idea that colonialism or absolutism in government control is the best and if you go against the state you need to be removed (I wonder who owns Riot!). But you cannot say in the same breath that Riot are sloppy writers who are also encoding colonial ideas into their writing because that takes actual talent to do so without being overtly obvious.

No, the question isn't "Is Riot Secretly Condoning Colonialism!?" or "Is Riot Condoning Masters Raping Slaves?!" (yes this is something I read) when the question you should be asking is, "Who the hell is this colonialism happening to?" Not in reality, I mean in the bloody story I'm not making the argument that it doesn't happen in reality so on and so on.

If I say Roman expansion I know that cultural assimilation was a common Roman tactic which is how the expansionist empire came to be and people like Augustus tried to stop it so the Roman empire wouldn't collapse from the sheer size. Who did it affect? Well let's see, Rome conquered Britain, Syria, Byzantium, Carthage, Gaul, Spain and parts of Germany from the few cultures I can remember.

Who the hell is Noxus conquering? Shurima? Ionia except they're losing the war still? The Freljords? Piltover/Zaun? Some place we never heard of?

If you say any of these fictional countries are scored for Noxus' conquest then ask yourself this- why wasn't this ever addressed in any of the past lores? Because this is what happens when you write by the literal seat of your pants and you are expected to turn out whatever it is you can. It took them 6 years to make that Annie short (Granted 2 years in production), and I am making the argument that there's not enough time to actually sit down and create a fully fleshed world for 130 independent characters who maybe have to all be protagonists in their own right.

When this question cannot be answered confidently, then why the heck is there any discussion about the moral relativism or moral absolutism or the acceptance of colonialism when the very basic premise of it all is missing. This Noxus is morally grey?

As morally grey as this guy maybe:

(Let's give him a hug)

So maybe it'll be rewritten so Noxus has conquered some who gives a crap lands, maybe Alistair will be remembered maybe he won't, but the main fictional countries have no reason to really dislike Noxus. There's no narrative reason. When the very premise of it all fails, ask yourself: Is it poor writing, is it rushed writing, what's the actual issue at hand? It's not those Dove commercials that can be easily misinterpreted, it's "This will work for now and we'll see next year if we have to make changes". Tell me if I'm wrong, then I'll point you at every champion (except Riven) that's been changed. Spoiler: More than 100 of the champions have had their lore changed.

There are reasons I can come up with, and reasons you all can come up with, and I hope you do because it's a good exercise in writing, but you are looking at a company that is juggling ladders, didn't change Singed's lore for literal years then forget to change Soraka's lore to be her new Targonian aspect.

https://puu.sh/zimaX/143cc47a72.jpg

https://puu.sh/zimbz/03ee62681c.jpg

Word choice is their last concern. But is it worth nitpicking all of this?

Yes and no. Yes for your own development, no if all you do is just sit there and whine every time something new comes out and you decide you need to make everyone else feel stupid for liking it.

My favorite Batman movie is "Batman and Robin". I shit you not, I dare you to fight me on it, I'll have that Bat credit card in hand ready to defend it to the death, just like the ice age killed the dinosaurs. Ice pun.

The point is guys, honestly, just freaking go have some fun. That's the point of the fandom. Go have fun, go worldbuild, and if it's not going the way you like guess what- you can pack your stuff and make your own things. Funny things about archetypes- everyone uses them, and just because you developed it here it doesn't mean it's invalidated in your own work. Just bloody have fun with it, poke fun at it, but don't get all uppity about it because guess what- all that time, all that energy I know that I've spent, was better spent in just pursuing my own thing.

Heck, I see a lot of people in the fandom who adjusted, had fun and are actually pursuing things in Riot, and that's great for them! Legit, that's awesome and I'm so glad to see people do that! You're furthering your careers, you're having fun and you're doing something you like!

Just because I may not like the new stuff doesn't mean I should invalidate, or drag you down so you can feel bad about it too.'

Also Swain looks hot as fuuu-