EXPLORER.

indie ezreal. unaffiliated. arcane-based canon. written by jadzia.

[proodigalexplorer]

Oh prodigal son,               Why have you returned?

An independent, unaffiliated blog for Ezreal from League of Legends, based out of the Arcane canon. As such, this blog will contain spoilers! I’m Jadzia, 22 years old, she/her, GMT-5. I’m in university and am currently recovering from a head injury, so bear with me as high activity is not guaranteed.

1. I selectively include Ezreal’s lore from his in-game incarnation, but not by much. Most of it is modified to suit the M17 tone of Arcane. 2. I write Ezreal as a 25 year old gay man. He may flirt with women, but he won’t be sincerely interested. 3. I won’t write with anyone who is under the age of 18. Please respect that. 4. Ezreal is romantically involved with a non-player character, the director of his museum, Ezekiel. As such shipping really isn’t a first priority for this blog, but try chemistry first and we’ll see what happens! 5. I’m multimuse, crossover and alt-universe friendly. 6. Writing is a profession for me as much as it is a hobby, so I may respond with long, thorough replies. Please don’t be intimidated! I don’t ask that you match me, only that you respect my time. 7. I am reachable on Discord at Jadzia#2277 and on Tumblr messages. Feel free to contact me: I don’t bite.

I tag for content with a “tw” prefix. If you need anything tagged, please message me. 

about. / ask. / blog.

[thegoldendemon]

do you enjoy vignettes and short stories? do you enjoy horror and surreal imagery? do I have a character for you. this is thegoldendemon, a blog for khada jhin from league of legends, written by jadzia (22, she/her). four years have passed and I have decided to return to the roleplay community on everyone’s favoritest “normal” guy who “normally” likes art.

share terror with your friends and give this a reblog!

[proodigalexplorer]

@hubristict​​ asked: you’re a mighty fast learner.

    Ezreal mugs him.

    “Oh but Councilor,” he says, goggles glinting as a flash of arcane magic flutters to life inside the old device, “said like that, you make it sound as though last I was here none of your equipment survived me.”

    Most didn’t. But who is Ezreal but a man of inches?

    He decides he won’t get used to it, calling Jayce Councilor like that. Sheesh. You spend upwards of half a year in Shuriman border jungle and you come home to Piltover upside down and Jayce Talis of all people Councilor in your absence. Ezreal’s no stranger to change, but this?

    Hnh.

    Feels as though he’s lost some cosmic bet.

    The old device in question is an ancient astronavigator for what Ezreal presumes is Rune Wars vintage, something he found while exploring around Mount Targon. He’d all but ran it over to Jayce’s workshop when he heard the news, sensing that they both could use the distraction. Seriously… Councilor. Jayce. Councilor. “Huh” wouldn’t even begin to describe it.

    I know he’s hoping I don’t ask, thinks Ezreal as the astronavigator, absorbing the magic, emits a noise akin to a spindle coming taut before it again releases, doing nothing. Is it looking for a specific frequency?—Maybe, now that he cares to remember. Rune Wars vintage means mage-on-mage arms race. Who’s to say they didn’t put in some sort of fail-safe to render it useless in the case it ever got into the hands of another mage? Problem then, how the hell is Ezreal going to change his magic like that? The gauntlet…

    “Okay, this isn’t working.” He gives Jayce the you know what time it is look. “Tell me a handsome genius like you has something around here that could divert any energy I give it and refine it. You know, a laser projector? Promise I’ll only use these powers for good.” Said with a wink.

    Ezreal smiles. “And once I’ve let you crack this old chestnut, you tell me why it is that you’re a Councilor now. Deal?”

[proodigalexplorer]

burning desire for a blond mischief man in your inbox right now? smash that like button and make your dreams come true

[proodigalexplorer]

@vaultbreak​ asked: you’re tougher than you look

   “Who, me? ‘Willowy like a reed’ Ezreal? Sure am! … Else I probably would have fallen off the railing. You know.”

    He flexes.

    “Who were those people, anyway?”

    Ezreal has to admit, for as much as he loves adrenaline, he normally finds it sneaking into places he shouldn’t and eavesdropping rather than getting into street fights, let alone street fights in Zaun. Where next, Noxus?—but he’d been inasmuch convinced by the frightened faces of the children they’d stood up for as he figured Vi had to be. And, okay, he contributed with mostly his legs rather than his fists, but she had that arena covered (beside, being honest, who is Ezreal if not at least seventy-five percent leg) and nobody but the bad guys got hurt. Win-win, right? Aren’t they just the best misfit-heroes?

    “Mister,” one of the children says, and it doesn’t get Ezreal’s attention. “Please, mister.”

    Now he hears them, and looks over to find open hands. Oh.

    Oh.

    “I don’t…” But Ezreal doesn’t finish; instead, his pack opens. He thinks about giving them gold, but for what? Food? Something to bring home? Then Ezreal thinks, where is home for these kids? What’s really going to help them? He even shoots a look at Vi, maybe fielding for suggestion, but ultimately gets an idea and starts ruffling through the pockets. He finds this:

    A bronzed clockwork mouse, beaming with bright, emeralds for eyes. Ezreal winds it, then puts it into their hands. It goes without saying that they’re delighted.

    “Here,” he says, smiling. “One for the road.”

    When they leave, Ezreal sighs, rubbing some dirt off his cheek. Huh.

    “I get it now,” he tells Vi. “If an undercity kid told me they were going to kick me in the shins, I’d probably put up my knees for them. Worse than puppies, I swear…”

[stephiramona]

.

[ignarius-blog1]

supergiant games sentence starters.

the goal with these is to be a mix of possible threading material or even just action-y type starters; some may be lyrics from the game soundtracks as well. most of the ones from pyre are taken from trailers and the pax east gameplay preview. also, these are just some lines or lyrics and i tried to steer clear of spoilers.

bastion —

listen, all this takes a lot of gettin’ use to, and you do get used to it… after a while.

there’s three things i’ll always miss though: one? not havin’ to watch my step all the time. two… ah… forget about two, and three… i miss the songs.

so, build that wall and build it strong ‘cause we’ll be there before too long.

i set my sail, fly the wind, it will take me back to my home, sweet home.

i see your star, you left it burning for me.

gods ain’t gonna help ya son, you’ll be sorry for what’cha done.

they ain’t gonna catch you when you fall.

you’ll be pleadin’ while you’re bleedin’.

they ain’t gonna heal ya son, don’t care about what’cha done.

no matter what happens now, you done good kid.

now… there’s something i want you to see.

did anyone else survive?

if i could be anyplace i wanted… i’d stay right here — we could go anywhere in the world.

nah, i’m just foolin’.

— i’d hate to be in your shoes.

well… it’s a touching reunion…

glad you showed up…

sometimes ya just need a drink.

right back at’cha!

get up, kid!

c’mon, that ain’t funny… i said get up!

you’re a mighty fast learner.

the dead? the dead ain’t gotta worry about this mess.

i ain’t one for long goodbyes, so here’s the deal —

although, after talking it out like this? … guess i’m beginning to have my doubts.

our world? she’s done… but there’s a way to put it back together, so better get ready.

together, we’re gonna build something grand.

— and remember… you ain’t in this alone, that’s a promise.

proper stories are supposed to start at the beginning… ain’t so simple with this one.

transistor —

hey _____ — we’re not going to get away with this, are we…?

together again — heh. sort of…

yikes…! found us already.

they want you back i bet… well, so do i.

ok, let’s go!

look, don’t fret, just… do something? 

hello world — look at all that.

we’re on the edge of town, a hundred blocks away.

still too close to it, we better get as far from there as possible.

… i’m so sorry, _____.

i couldn’t stop them…

s/he’s tracking us?

ok, side street due east — through there.

i think i know a place where we can get a ride.

this didn’t used to be here…

look, whatever you’re thinking, do me a favor; don’t let go.

it’s just skin and bones.

you always go, walking on coals.

i hear you buzzing, a fly on the wall, in through the window and up through the hall… flying in circles just trying to land.

maybe you’re looking for someone to blame, fighting for air while you circle the drain.

never be sorry for your little time.

it’s not when you get there, it’s always the climb.

but i won’t save you.

when you speak i hear silence, every word a defiance.

think i’ll go where it suits me, moving out to the country.

you tell yourself that you’re lucky.

lying down never struck me as something fun.

i won’t become a number in the system. zeroes and ones? not me.

i will always find you like it’s written in the stars… you can run, but you can’t hide — try.

pyre — 

let’s get down to business, chum!

hey chum, you know how to read, or what?

you may call me _____.

see — right on schedule! what’d i tell you?

you told us we’d find someone alive…

someday! i said we’d find someone alive someday… just not today i guess, but don’t be glum.

you know, i see you frowning underneath that mask!

it looks like s/he’s breathing.

broken, shaking, starving, probably diseased… yeah, good luck with that there, chum!

you have an hour at best.

i won’t be long.

don’t care who you are or what you did, none of that matters anymore — all of us? we’re equal nothings here.

turns out you’re tougher than you look.

what!? then what are we waiting for?

silent treatment, huh?!

now now, don’t you play dumb with me here, understand?

i ask you for something simple in exchange.

— sorry to put you on the spot like this, friend.

that horrifying petrified mountain thing that no one with a lick sense goes near? … great.

well — this ought to be good for a few laughs at least… what do you say, _____?

i’m counting on you, friend.

it is safe enough for us to travel by the light of day, but at dusk? we stop.

you could join me for a little stroll if you’re feeling up to it.

in any case… i do what i can to stay busy — it keeps the sense of isolation well at bay.

i see that reports of your demise have been exaggerated, just as we were beginning to think you were gone for good… 

i trust you remember my face, though you must have assumed to never see it again after last time…?

never had i come so close to freedom, only for you to dash my hopes.

[vaultbreak]

continued from here.

       she remembers vividly in cyanotype splattered with pink: a scene she wishes more than anything she could have stopped. another failure… she remembers trying to rip herself free of the chair she was bound to as powder enacted something she knew her sister would never be able to take back. she remembers screaming for powder not to do it until her throat felt worn and raw. she remembers slumping in dejection as the realization it was too late settled in.

both topside and the undercity were about to be changed and remolded once again.

vi was tired, exhausted even… her world still felt like it wasn’t quite finished in it’s wild spinning. she didn’t remember how long it’d been between watching as powder left the scene and the sensation of the ropes loosen around her, blinking wearily her eyes settled on caitlyn. they helped one another toward the beaten path that awarded them a view of the chaos — plumes of multi-colored smoke wafting upward from the council’s chambers in the distance.

“let’s get you back home, cupcake…”  the words fell from her tongue and her own voice felt miles from her ears.

—

she watched caitlyn enter her home safely ; nodding to mrs. kiramman and refusing, in essence, their assistance for now before turning on heel to get back somewhere she could tend to her own injuries. a sharp inhale, barely noticing still just how stiff and damaged her arm was from the fight with sevika. between adrenaline and fear in all that had transpired, vi all but forgot her own condition.

still she neglected the dark stains on her bandaged arm, still she ignored the large gash from that traitor’s blade and the bruises that littered her body. she ached all over and yet, it just didn’t register. not now, not yet. and then her mind raced through a thousand and one thoughts — was pretty boy okay? what about little man? where did pow-pow go in the end?

what… what was next?

—

she was unsure of how long she’d been standing beneath the golden, piltovan streetlight rigid from her endeavors when a voice broke through the silence. it was familiar, but different, perhaps attributed to how long it’d been since she’d seen the explorer in question last? she couldn’t be sure, nor was that necessarily all that important, she supposed. she blinked a few times as he said her name as if it was foreign to her, the thoughts that clouded her mind cleared slowly as she ushered them away with a shake of her head. quieting the storm for now.

after what felt like an age, her voice freed itself from her mouth and it didn’t sound so damn far away though still somewhat rasped,  “ez? well shit… i — wait, why are you here?”  her tone making it feel as if it was just yesterday they spoke last, not years. clear blue eyes curiously searched him, assessing the changes he’s undergone over the years she’d missed out on.

[proodigalexplorer]

    “I could ask you the same question, you know.”

    Ezreal gives her an eyeful… and a hug. It doesn’t last long—not with how Vi winds up shock straight as if the contact hurts her, and Ezreal pulls away, catching sight of her arm when he does, battered, bruised, looking as though it might be bleeding under her sleeve. Damn.

    “I missed you,” he says. “I had—I had absolutely no idea where on Valoran you disappeared off to, and now there’s all this—”

    All this: the smoke, the blockades, the shattered atrium, the promise that this is only just beginning.

    “—so, if you’ll excuse my saying so… Vi, you look like hell.”

    They were fifteen.

    Ezreal’s parents never let him go to the undercity. Not while they were around, anyway, and they were around only rarely. It’d been a point of fascination with him, as did everything with the promise of mystique (or for being verboten); why not there? Why not there, when his parents made careers from going out into uncharted wilderness far beyond the Sun Gate, let alone anywhere within Piltover’s borders? So they forbade him. When did that stop him? Never.

    Ezreal met Vi shortly after sweet-talking his way out of being mugged, wherein she dryly informed him that was better off not being such an obvious topsider, or he might get mugged. Obviously Ezreal asked her every question there was to ever ask about the undercity, and Vi entertained enough of them that he couldn’t help himself but follow her around like a stray dog. Fissures? Chem-smoke? Neons? Definitely she chose a dangerous tour route half expecting him to slide off a pipe and become someone else’s problem, but remember: Ezreal isn’t as laterally challenged as the average topsider. They became fast friends.

    Then she disappeared. And now?

    Ezreal can’t be sure if he’s looking at the same person.

    “Your arm, it’s hurt, isn’t it?—And we probably shouldn’t be catching up here. Can you come back with me at the museum? Ezekiel… my boyfr—my librarian, will know what to do with it.”

    Beat.

    “Please.”

[proodigalexplorer]

@vaultbreak​

    For Ezreal, he’s always imagined “the end of the world” as the great, mean maw of the Void ripping itself out of Shurima, ushering a world of monsters and horrors to bite at the very throat of Runeterra. A dramatic way for things to go, so much so that dismissing it as impossible given mankind’s uncanny ability to thwart that scenario for thousands of years—and not for lack of trying—would be easier that shifting his way out of Ardremak’s tomb.

    For Piltover, it’s today.

    BOOM!

    “What in the Maker was that?”

    Ezekiel and Ezreal share looks, neither wishing to speak any possibilities into being. He can feel his grip inside Ne’Zuk’s gauntlet tighten, blood pounding in his ears. Ezreal has heard these kinds of explosions before… but never here. Home. Where things should be bright and shiny and stable and nothing ever goes w

    “I don’t know,” Ezreal says, grip releasing. “But I have to find it.”

***

    Ezekiel argued. He all but tried to rip Ezreal’s arm out of its socket, he was pulling against him that hard. Are you insane? He demanded. Why would you ever want to go outside? It’s going to be a riot out there! But Ezreal insisted. Stubborn to a fault. And Ezekiel let him go.

    There’s no riot outside, not that Ezreal has found. It’s quiet like the dead. He shifts up to a nearby rooftop and alarmed can’t even begin to describe his reaction when he notes the massive plume of smoke rising out of the Council tower, the windowed atrium shattered like peasant glass. Whatever urge to play hero all but vacates his body as Ezreal falls to his knees, stunned. His heart is in his ears. What what what what

    This has to be… someone else’s fight.

    Ezreal doesn’t intervene.

***

    The Enforcers have abandoned the barricades. Summoned to the Council, no doubt, and Ezreal lets himself down from the rooftops when he nears a crossing bridge. He stares out to the other end, wondering if what Ezekiel had told him could be true. If it’s war, Ezreal thinks, why is nobody here?

    He spots someone as they’re leaving.

    Red jacket, pink hair. He’d know that cut anywhere. Ezreal can hardly believe his eyes. He runs—no, shifts ahead, spinning around to look her in the face.

    “Vi?”

[proodigalexplorer]

WELCOME HOME.

[ spoilers for the ending of season 1 of arcane ]

    Now, having to sneak through the streets of Piltover and break into your own library, museum, and house for want of a lockdown furnished with barricades at every junction, malaise in the air and no clue what might have started this, only the surety that at any moment this tension might explode into outright pandemonium?

    Even Ezreal has to admit, this is a first. (Though he can’t act as though he hasn’t been accused of worse timing, there and again.)

    Fortunately, unlike many Piltovan fellows, Ezreal doesn’t count himself among the laterally challenged—and this wouldn’t be an introductory experience to “going by the rooftops”, might as last time been more about smuggling so-called illegal artefacts under the nose of border customs and less about the entire city contracted onto itself and the stink of freshly shot gunpowder everywhere. The moon is red tonight, and Ezreal can’t help but feel it’s glaring at him. What are you doing, boy? He imagines it demanding. Can’t you see you aren’t welcome?

    “Maybe,” Ezreal says to nobody, gauntlet singing as he shifts from one rooftop to another, “but you know I’ve never found being unwelcome that persuasive.”

    Almost slipping off the side because this particular building has had some renovation done that he didn’t see and didn’t care to remember because he figured muscle memory would do the job, well. Let’s just say that his tone jumped a few octaves on the ‘ive’ of “persuasive”.

    Ezreal has come from—where else?—Shurima, if the tan in his face or the jingling of his pack guaranteed to be lined with gold baubles and coins not proof enough. He’d been marginally more daring by trading the rollicking sand dunes for the jungled border country this time around, dodging ancient tomb guardians and wasting disease alike. Maybe he knew that something wasn’t quite right with the city when he left, reading unease off faces just as he’d grown accustomed to reading from his trail guides in the wild, but this? Sterling, golden Piltover, miserable as if waiting with baited breath?

    Hnh.

    He’s at the atrium of his library now.

    Uncle Lymere gave the building to Ezreal when he went off on his Freljord journey, ostensibly because Lymere thought Ezreal “old enough” to be able to “court some responsibility”, but they both knew it was so the Explorer’s Guild would have to see less of him now that Ezreal had somewhere else to go, sleep, and put those illegal artefacts on display. Not that Ezreal minded. (He minded, but a whole museum to himself? There was no world where he said no to that, bruised ego aside.)

    Okay. Giant, cylindrical windows, and the sort of iron trusses that are not going to budge if Ezreal’s life depends on it. That’s fine. There’s got to be some sort of ventilation hole around here somewhere, right? … An appropriately man-sized ventilation hole? Some searching later and Ezreal finds what probably fits the bill, and he’s all smiles before he goes to open it and it’s locked. Locked. With a key.

    Which much shuffling of his pack later confirms he doesn’t have, in case he was wondering.

    “Shit.”

    Truer words rarely spoken.

    He can see the inside—isn’t that enough to shift in, you might be thinking, and you’d be correct, if only Ezreal fancies himself a fountain of giblets. Ne’Zuk’s gauntlet is many things, but capable of shifting through anything but the open air it is not. (How does he know? You’re better off not asking.) Naturally he’s got a lockpick of some kind in his pack too, designed for old ancient things that might as well crumble to dust when touched as opposed to the intricate, clockwork locksmithing of Piltover. This is a problem. Solution? See:

    He zaps it with a bolt of arcane energy until it explodes, that’s what. Shame—it was a nice lock.

    Throwing the hatch open, Ezreal sighs with relief as he tucks his head in and gets a good enough look to shift the rest of the way down. The relief is a touch short lived, as Ezreal comes to the realization that a library filled with bones of long forgotten beasts and taxidermy of beasts more recent is not the most homey place to break into at night where the rest of Piltover seems set to blow.

    Less so when he spots a crossbow pointed at his face.

   “H-hey!” Ezreal throws his hands up. “It’s me!”

   In the darkness he spots the familiar reflection of eyeglasses, then a pointed exhale. “By the Maker, Ezreal. I thought you were a burglar! Haven’t you heard of using the front door?”

   “… Is that a Rakshemi crossbow? You know it’s reconstructed only for display, right—”

   “—but would a burglar know that?”

   “Okay. Touché. How about a kiss instead?”

    Ezekiel all but laughs out loud, and the tension in the air evaporates. “No,” he says. “You know the rule. No kissing until you’ve washed your face of whatever mud and disease you’ve no doubt dragged in.” He lowers the crossbow and sets it back up on its hooks, crossing Ezreal another furtive glance.

   “But are you going to tell me why you broke in to your own museum?”

   “Umm… well. Have you taken a look around Piltover? I don’t think I’m exactly the kind of face those Enforcers want to see right now. Are you going to tell me what’s going on, here?”

    Ezekiel sighs, taking out his glasses to rub the lenses. Ezreal knows that look—the it’s worse than it sounds look. Ezekiel never takes out his glasses unless it’s serious. He grimaces.

    “It’s the undercity,” he admits, and Ezreal’s heart drops. “Listen, Ezreal… I’m glad to see you. But I can’t help but feel as though you may have been better served still exploring the jungle than coming back. I fear something terrible is about to happen. I’m sure you felt it as soon as you crossed the Sun Gate.”

    “Yeah,” Ezreal says, looking down. “I did. Feels like the whole city is waiting, and the waiting isn’t for anything good.”

    Ezekiel resets his glasses, nodding. Ezreal loves the slim line of him—Lymere’s assistant before he left the library to Ezreal, promoting himself to director as soon as the old man wandered north. How his knowledgeable attitude would be tempered by his dry snarking and bossy candor, king of the roost should that roost be books, museum engravings and herding guests.

    Ezreal doesn’t see any of that now, and that’s what worries him.

    “Hey.” He takes Ezekiel’s hand, bringing it to his cheek. “No matter what happens, we’ve got each other. And I have at least a handful of new life or death stories from Shurima to tell you! What’s more exciting and helpfully distracting than that?”

    Ezekiel chuffs. “Ah, Ezreal. However else would I ever cheer myself up? Alright. Let’s get going to the lounge before the fire pits itself out.”

    They walk together, and Ezreal steals a kiss on the lips.

    Ezekiel, wiping that off with a playful scoff: “Welcome home, Ezreal.”

    Welcome home.

    The same night, a rocket tears off the Council sanctum.