"From one dead man to another, thank you for giving him a second chance... and the life I never could."
The words echoed in the emptiness of the grave. The name ‘Marcus Du Couteau’ was engraved at the side of the marble stone, filled with gold as deserving of one with the General’s status. The gravestone was covered in withered flowers and dust as a pale angel weeped for one of Noxus’ most well-known children.
All of that, a farce to cover a void no one had an explanation for. There have been hundreds of theories about what happened to General Du Couteau, each one less feasible than the last. Truth was hidden in shadows few dared to set a feet into, between whispers of dark magic and equally dark secrets.
It was hard to tell what Marcus Du Couteau would have answered to those words. Maybe he would have laughed at that boy’s unnecessary and inexplicable emotion. Maybe he would have said that most would argue with a life of forced servitude being called a life at all.
But the facts remained where his body did not. There was a man out there trying to find what was left of him, to carry his name like a reminder of life. What Talon was now had been shaped by the hands of Marcus Du Couteau, from the gutters to the high roofs of Noxus, a blade in the shadows.
And even if the man had been lost after his mentor’s disappearance, even if he was as empty as this grave, he was indeed alive. His steps, as astray as they might be, were deserving of that life.
