" you hate the noxians as much as i do, don't you, pup? " the devil drawled out, his cold eyes and countenance hidden away behind a mask. " how do you like the thrill of hunting them down? "
his jaw tightens. were they present atop the round table, his fingernails might have tore into its weathered oak. they tempt to pierce his legs instead.
this man – and he is only a man, neither devil nor beast as the whispers in the wind might suggest, kayn learns this too late – conceals his face, conceals his motives beneath his mask; yet he can only hide within his mind. he can hunt, and hunt, and hunt, but it is he that becomes the hunted every single time he’s met with the bitter taste of his own truth.
noxus rips your throat out. it forges your defiance into a dagger and digs it in between your ribs, then praises you for the blood at your feet. noxus teaches you to enjoy that sight.
the blood of a noxian is no different from his own, or this man’s were he to simply lean forward and snap. but there is no atonement to be found in senseless killing. there never was.
shieda kayn does not hate. a weapon is incapable of such an emotion, no matter how many times he’s lifted that wretched scythe, heavy from the weight of consequence over his head and introduced soldier after soldier to their personal guillotine. they die simply because he cannot, not yet. that is noxus’ gift to him.
❝ their deaths are inevitable, ❞ he replies at last, as cold as the bite of howling wind. ❝ there is nothing beyond that. in the end, it’s either them or us. don’t you agree? ❞
@deadeyc