#bladesurgence

[vulpesse-arc]

AMOROUS RUINATION. The words of her interlocutor instantaneously ignite a WILDFIRE deep within the vastaya’s ribcage, whose destructive luminescence glints deadly within amaranthine pools of molten gold. Her LOVE has always summoned forth RUINATION, as if they were twins that could not be separated, two sides of the same coin and thus the experience of one would automatically imply the experience of the other   /   With one dainty hand, she would generously donate flowers in bloom and perform gestures of affection ; with her clawed hand, she would take back tenfold what she had previously given. 

Vulpine audits seem to shudder underneath the agonizing weight of the conversation, lowering themselves against sapphire locks.   ❝  I am drawn to many things but, in the end, what remains is always the same   ──   Bones, ghosts, ruination. Who knows, mayhap, LOVE is just a poor excuse to clothe myself with a mantle of false goodness and innocence.  ❞   Vocalization is laden with anguish as it drips from the woman’s plush tiers, from an ichorous maw that wants more and more and... more.

The dance of silken tails momentarily interrupts her utterance, giving her a moment of soothing silence before her lips part once more.   ❝  Nothing can remain untainted for long.  ❞

cont ! ♡ @bladesurgence​ . 

[godwillow]

"Do you have any feline friends, Green-Father?"

     “I do, but you can’t tell them that!” Ivern says with a goodhearted laugh. “The jungle cats around here take pride in their independence. They like to catch their own dinner, build their own den, be their own company.” 

     Ivern looks behind him, towards a cluster of ferns. He holds a finger up to his face in a shushing motion — don’t tell them I’m saying this! — before turning back to Irelia. 

     “But just between you and me, everyone needs a friend sometimes. They come to me, from time to time, to help get a thorn out of their paw, or find shelter from poachers, or just to sit and watch the moon walk across the sky. It just takes a little kindness and a lot of patience, and I’m sure they’ll warm up to you, too. Just, ah, be careful not to step on their tails!” 

[rakkoran]

𝛀  continued  from  here    /    @bladesurgence​

          ➤  The  people  of  Targon  all  had  a  similar  gait.  Their  shoulders  were  always  square,  their  backs  straight.  To  travel  Targon,  one  had  to  constantly  brave  the  elements,  but  it  was  never  done  with  a  slouched  back  and  a  cowering  form.  The  howling  winds  were  greater  than  any  man,  but  they  weren’t  to  be  treated  as  an  unstoppable  force,  they  were  to  be  met  as  a  challenge.  Atreus  himself  knew  that  he  carried  these  very  ideals  with  every  step  that  he  took.  It  became  even  more  glaringly  obvious  with  each  moment  he  spent  in  Ionia  now,  he  was  so  different.  

          And  so  was  she.  Irelia  strode  into  the  room  with  a  grace  that  Atreus  had  nearly  forgotten,  and  was  reminded  of  in  full.  He  paid  no  mind  to  the  disheveled  state  of  her  hair,  nor  the  obvious  signs  of  a  training  session  just  completed.  He  watched  her  legs  as  she  walked  with  the  grace  of  both  a  warrior  and  a  dancer,  and  he  stared  at  her  smile,  all  the  while  a  similar  grin  firmly  planted  itself  across  his  own  lips.

          She  was  so  different.  The  smile  remained  on  his  face  as  she  easily  sat  upon  her  knees  across  from  him.  He  remained  silent  and  transfixed,  even  as  she  took  his  hand,  where  he  needed  a  moment  to  regather  himself  before  giving  her  hand  a  firm  squeeze.  She  was  different--  but  he  felt  so  comfortable  with  her.

          “I  cut  my  hair,”  Atreus  said  all  too  quickly.  

          Nevermind  the  faint  red  ring  that  now  circled  about  his  iris,  and  nevermind  the  golden,  tattoo-like  bands  that  wrapped  about  his  biceps  and  his  thighs,  and  along  either  side  of  his  temples.  No,  the  first  thing  he  wished  to  share  with  Irelia  was  about  his  hair.  

          He  reached  forward  and  grabbed  one  of  the  poured  cups  of  tea.  Never  an  enthusiastic  fan,  but  it  served  as  enough  of  a  distraction  for  him  in  that  moment.  Atreus  brought  the  cup  to  his  lips  and  muttered  a  quiet,  “stupid,”  into  the  steam  before  he  took  a  drink.  

          “To  tell  the  tale  of  all  that’s  transpired  since  we  last  met  would  take  more  than  a  single  pot  of  tea,”  He  resumed,  “And  I  wouldn’t  want  to  make  you  listen  to  it  right  after  you’ve  been  out  training.  But,  things  have  changed,  yes,  I’ve  also  changed  as  I’m  sure  you  have.  I  still  wake  each  day  to  see  the  sun  rise  from  Targon’s  peak  from  the  east,  and  for  years  I  could  only  imagine  how  Ionia  fared  beneath  each  sunrise.”  

          Atreus  placed  the  small  cup  of  tea  on  the  table.  He  lightly  ran  his  finger  along  the  cup’s  rim.  Which  parts  could  he  tell  her,  and  which  ones  would  she  simply  not  understand?  Affairs  with  the  heavens,  aspects,  the  darkin  alike.  Did  she  want  to  know  all  of  it?  Did  he  want  to  tell  her  all  of  it?  

          With  the  thought,  he  swore  that  he  felt  a  phantom  pain  pulse  across  his  skin  beneath  his  tunic,  throbbing  along  the  massive  scar  that  was  carved  into  his  chest.  

          He  was  Atreus  here.  The  Ionians  knew  no  Aspects  of  Targon,  they  knew  no  gods  that  were  forged  from  the  stars.  If  she  asked,  he  wouldn’t  lie,  but  for  now,  he  would  simply  be  himself.  

          “I’m  relieved  to  see  that  Ionia  is  still  as  beautiful  as  I  remembered...  What  of  tales  of  your  own,  Irelia?  I  remember  the  last  time  I  was  here,  fate  made  sure  I  brought  conflict  even  then.”

[lostfury]

“You knew this. You chose this.”

SENTENCE MEME.     (  ACCEPTING.   )      /      @bladesurgence

            She  did  not  know  Lito  Irelia  personally.  

            Asa  and  Shava  spoke  highly  of  her.  This  was  enough  for  Riven  to  know  that  she  did  not  want  to  know  Lito  Irelia  personally.  She  knew  Lito  Irelia  only  in  the  way  that  Noxus  had  chosen  to  portray  her :  an  Ionian  of  notable  resistance.  A  symbol  of  hope.  A  stubborn  thorn  in  their  side.  It  is  perhaps  the  smallest  of  blessings  that  they  had  never  met  on  the  battlefield.

            And  so  when  she  is  stationed  to  clear  the  death  and  debris  from  an  Ionian  settlement  under  Irelia’s  watch,  no  ─   no.  She  does  not  want  to  know  Lito  Irelia  personally.  Instead,  Riven  keeps  her  head  down  and  works  to  clear  charred  wood  and  rubble  with  nothing  but  a  spade  and  her  bare  hands.  She  works  until  blisters  bloom  on  her  palms,  burst,  and  bloom  again.

            By  the  time  the  sun  had  reached  its  peak,  she  had  dug  so  deep,  so  quickly,  that  finally  between  two  crumbling  beams  of  wood  she  unearths  a  limb  ─    a  mangled  arm,  stiff  and  cold  and  charred.  It  winks  wet  and  black  in  the  light.  She  cannot  see  the  person  it  is  attached  to.  She  stares  at  this  fraction  of  a  person  until  everything  seems  to  go  faint  and  dark  at  the  edges  of  her  vision :  she  closes  her  eyes,  breathing  deep  into  her  constricting  lungs,  but  the  smell  of  charred  flesh  digs  like  a  knife  into  the  tender  parts  of  her  belly,  and  a  cold  sweat  breaks  out  over  her  temples.  Her  heart  picks  up  a  preylike  pace.

             I  am  among  the  living,  she  thinks.  The  sun  beats  down  on  the  back  of  her  neck  and  sends  a  panicky  flush  through  her  core,  straight  down  to  the  tremble  of  her  hands,  digging  trenches  into  the  soot  beneath  her  palms.  I  am  among  the  living.  What’s  done  is  done.  She  does  not  hear  the  soft  footfalls  or  shift  of  debris  behind  her.

            Riven  sees  Irelia  in  the  peripheral  of  her  vision  just  before  she  doubles  over  completely,  her  trembling  body  wracked  with  violent  heaves.  

             It  stays  quiet  for  a  time,  beyond  her  shuddering  breaths,  while  Riven  works  to  compartmentalize  the  old  war  inside  her :  she  stops  retching,  and  drags  spittle  from  her  mouth  with  the  back  of  her  hand.  She  focuses  on  the  tremble  of  her  hands  and  wills  them  still.  She  doesn’t  quite  manage  it.

            “  You  knew  this,  ”  Irelia  says.  

            “  I  know,  ”  Riven  mutters  too  quietly  to  be  heard,  her  throat  constricted  and  aching.

            “  You  chose  this.  ”  It  doesn’t  quite  sound  like  anger.  It  doesn’t  sound  like  a  comfort,  either.  Riven  does  not  want  to  know  Lito  Irelia  personally :  she  does  not  want  to  know  her,  to  hear  her,  to  see  her.  She  was  every  noble  thing  about  this  country.  She  was  every  noble  thing  Riven  had  consigned  to  death.  

            “  I  know,  ”  the  exile  spits.  She  drags  herself  to  her  feet,  blistered  palms  caked  in  soot  and  filth,  and  finally  raises  her  eyes.  The  people  around  her  all  regard  her  the  same  way,  with  some  mixture  of  disgust  and  pity.  The  men  move  past  her  to  retrieve  the  body  for  proper  burial.  

            Irelia  does  not  look  at  her  in  a  way  she  understands.  As  she  turns  to  leave,  the  tremble  in  Riven’s  hands  somehow  worsens.

[prodigal-ezreal]

Just another successful liberation of a priceless artifact: an indigo dagger with jagged edges that vibrated with a low hum when he swung it. it looks as frail as glass, but legend has it that it was once used to slay a general back when Ionia was made of a maryad of factions that knew no peace. Ezreal is distractedly playing with it as he traverses the forest, surely it must have a pattern to its sound, or so he thinks. He is so entrapped by its puzzle that he doesn’t notice the growing root on the ground until his foot stumbles with it. Balance is lost in an instant, he swings his arms wildly for only a breath before he is rolling down the steep hill, hiding the dagger close to his chest in a last attempt to protect it from the damage of the fall. Oh and what a fall it is! He hits fallen branches, rocks and bushes that tear and stain his clothes, his hair!

He finally rolls into a valley and into a gruesome scene, falling on his back with the dagger still clutched in his hand. Blue eyes find their likeness as Ezreal tries to incorporate himself and asses the situation around him. Nothing feels broken, but if the bodies lying around him are anything to go by, it may not remain that way. The woman standing before him is breath-taking. Both literally and figuretivelly. Suddenly, the explorer is hyper-concious of his looks and the incriminating weapon on his hand.

“Hey~” His hands slowly rise in surrender, a tentative smile forming in his lips. Ionia is still new territory for him, as are its many dialects he is still learning. Well, isn’t this ideal. “I swear this isn’t what it looks like.”

@bladesurgence

[defensator1]

Noise: Name one sound your muse finds absolutely unbearable.

fear-themed headcanon questions | accepting, sort of!@bladesurgence​

my portrayal of jayce is, to a degree, on the spectrum of autism, so repetitive noises (especially shrill-y ones, even if far away) outside his workshop tend to get to him very quick to the point he’d quickly try to remove himself from the place in question, regardless of any social disapproval it might bring him. any other repetitive noises tend to slowly eat away at his cool, too, but with time he’s tried to develop a better endurance to it.

funnily enough, though, the noises of hammercannon’s form switch tend to soothe him and he’s used it as a soothing agent before, especially when at alone.

[soulthroes]

"I fight because I want to protect others." Irelia answers as if it's the easiest question in the world - which isn't far off the mark for her. "It just feels like the right thing to do. If you have ever had that urge, even once, I think that brings out the natural goodness in your heart."

            ‘  you…  ’  ahri looks at her ─  looks into her, pupils a narrow gleam in the sun, faltering over the lines of irelia’s face almost guiltily. she seems startled into silence, a wild animal frozen mid - step.  ‘  …you are better than i am,  ’  she says. the sentiment fails to leave a bitter taste in the back of her throat. if anything, she was candid: irelia lito was the goodness she spoke of, and ahri is not certain she can say the same for herself. these nobler aspirations she preaches are as foreign and dreamlike to her as another language. 

            ‘  i knew someone like you,  ’  she murmurs. she hugs her knees to her chest, draws a line in the dirt, and does not meet irelia’s gaze.  ‘  he was a romantic. he was good, like you. he saw beautiful things and wanted to preserve them… but i only wanted to preserve him. he died because of me instead.  ’  ahri brings herself to look at irelia, a furrow between her brow as she recounts her old wounds. it does not ever get any easier, but she has grown accustomed to stomaching the pain.  ‘  you are better than i am, irelia.  ’  she says.  ‘  you know what it means to be good. it is in your nature. it isn’t in mine.  ’  a small smile touches the corners of her mouth fleetingly.  ‘  but i think you could help me learn.  ’

[vulpesse-arc]

ahri has two hands   ──   and they are to hold @defyances & @bladesurgence ‘s hands at the same time uwu ♡