believe it or not, i want to help you. — from yasuo
̗̀ะ໒⋮━ FOR PEOPLE WHO DON'T SAY MUCH
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Help, huh.
It feels as though she’s found herself on the receiving end of that word more and more since her return to Ionia. Though even before then, Ionia had always been much too kind to her. Much too warm, too forgiving, even to a sinner like her.
Still, she can't help but think it funny that she would find the scarred swordsman here—the very man she would have let cut her had their paths crossed under different circumstances once more. Back then, his blade would have been her penance, the price for the blood she had spilled. Now, they stand together, changed by the passage of time.
It’s unsettling, this reunion.
She could still remember how easily he could have killed her, had he wanted to, and how swift he had been in saving her father.
She doesn’t rebuke his offer. Instead, she gives him a quiet, grateful nod.
The large vulkodalk Riven had been fending against clicked its teeth and hissed as though to greet its new enemy, snout scrunching with each sniff: cautious, yet ravenous all the same. It thinks of them as its next meal, even when it had been met with nothing but trouble during its earlier fight with Riven.
“We are surrounded by Serpentleaf. Try not to let the leaves touch you.” The Noxian exile offers, her tone almost casual, though she’s certain the swordsman is already well aware of the plant’s dangers. She spins her blade with a practised flick of her wrist, testing its weight before settling into her stance. “... And do me a favour—keep its horn intact. Fa-ir has a use for them.”
What an odd pair they make, like this—two lone wanderers, once adversaries who crossed blades, now entrusting each other with their backs.