#megacrazed

[huntershowl-moving]

plotting with @megacrazed made me think about the absolute comedy of hellhound ( 6′4″ ) & jinx ( 5′3″ ) standing next to each other.

[cewyll]

@megacrazed​ said:

‘  your loss,  not mine.  ’

grave suggestion. ( accepting )

❝ yes, i can see that. ❞  A LONG, MOURNFUL SIGH as she looks at the smoldering book on the ground. ❝ i hadn’t even finished it yet. why – why did you do that? ❞

[tckeoff]

“   don’t  worry ,   i  have  a  plan .   ”

          ❛ well, that’s a relief, ❜  he muses aloud and — though his tone is laced with sarcasm — he says it all in good fun,  ❛ i worry any plans i think of will have much less doodling involved. but even if i did add some, they would not be half as good as yours, you know. ❜

          a quiet  chuckle escapes as his gaze meets hers once more, expression then morphing into something more stern.  ❛ so, tell me ... what exactly is your plan? ❜

[huntershowl-moving]

@megacrazed​ | welcome to the body pile. 

A SEVERED HEAD ROLLS ACROSS THE GROUND and comes to a slow, squishy halt at hellhound’s feet. she pauses, looking down at the guard’s shocked face and the bright pink powder dusting his eyelashes. did jinx leave a trail of corpses ... ?  on accident? on purpose? regardless, it is easy enough to follow. scattered limbs and neon wall doodles lead the hound to the rendezvous point her employer gave her. it is a collaborative job with silco’s best agent: jinx, perhaps the most notorious person in zaun outside of silco himself. after eyeing the head once more, hellhound scales the wall and bounds off silently into the rafters.

it’s the one thing she loves, truly loves, about the undercity: plenty of room to leap from beam to beam, stay in the shadows, never once touching the ground. even if someone were to look up, the plumes of black smoke wisping off of her hair allow her to melt into the endless pockets of darkness created by the chaotic structures around her. nobody ever looks up. often, it’s the death of them. the job is simple enough. a sniper by trade, all she needs to do is use her skills to pick off one very paranoid man while jinx distracts his small army of goons. simple in theory, indeed.  but hellhound is used to working alone, and this order deeply frustrates her; what’s sanya’s game, sending out their right hand for grunt work?  finally, the bloody, severed limbs and splotches of pink bomb-residue lead the hound to her new... ally. she crouches at the end of a metal beam, sweeping the dimly-lit courtyard below through the scope of her rifle, but there’s no sign of jinx. calling out would be idiotic.  SO SHE WAITS. 

[vilestar]

@megacrazed​: “ hey, VEIGAR ! how’s that world domination thing going for ya ?! did you get taller ?! HAHA .. who are we kidding — ”

“Watch. your. tongue.” a harsh tone nestled within Lord Veigar’s voice as he returned a gaze. A cold, judging gaze. Claws firmly grasped the iron staff pinned on the surface of the very earth they stood on, rolling his eyes and skipping her aforementioned teasing. “As for my quest for ultimate ascendancy, it HAS been going remarkly well. I’ve consecutively shut down more warlords than you could count, Missy!”

[ekkod]

@megacrazed​ | 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙰 𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚁 .

“ COME  ON  !!  you’re  almost  there  !  just  a  little  further  .  if  you  can  do  this  vi  has  to  take  you  with  her  ,  𝙽𝙴𝚇𝚃  𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴  .”

[thegoldendemon]

" jhin, ever consider being a virtuoso for MAYHEM ? that's how it works, right ? no ? "

inbox asks. / always accepting

    Piltover is all smoke and powder-dust.

    “Mayhem?” He chuckles, indicating the burning skyline. “I’m afraid I already am. Art is not meant to be consumed in a calm and orderly fashion.”

    It’s not all his fault, of course. Spend enough time in Piltover and you come to discover that ‘preeminent panic’ is just a regular state of mind, much to Jhin’s amusement. It takes only a sliver of kindling and a single spark with which to watch the city ignite as if by its own accord. Dare he say how easily it spirals out of their control borders… melodramatic.

    (But is Khada Jhin in a position to complain?)

    Jinx and he have exchanged grenades to inspect. Where Jhin’s is all foil and flower, her’s is sibilant and sharp. Simple, maybe, but far from crude. Not with the way the metal’s juxtaposed against blue and pink and everything neon. Hnh. Not quite his style (an understatement), but that isn’t to say Jhin doesn’t know a fellow artist when he sees one. Different means, sure, but in the end?

    The screams beneath them answer that well enough.

    “I’m impressed,” which isn’t anything Khada Jhin says lightly. “I’ll concede the point.”

    He smiles.

    “But, watch.”

    Though he might be a magician unveiling his poster act, Jhin snaps his fingers and the grenade disappears. Then, below, throngs of wailing things suddenly stop. They’re listening. And then, they start to laugh. Howling, screaming with it where before it might have been mortal terror. Tonight is the funniest day in their lives, and they crowd each other and bring their hands together before—

    —the grenade reappears, down there, and explodes.

    “Audience participation,” explains Jhin. “A specialty.”

[umbane]

@megacrazed

He likes it better down here in the undercity. Up top it’s too bright, too structured, and it hums with a magic he doesn’t trust. It’s different from the natural magic that flows through Ionia, and even at night the streets are illuminated by hexlamps. It’s just as noisy down in the undercity, but at least there’s enough darkness to travel unnoticed without shadowstepping, and the enforcers don’t stop him at every turn. 

                                                                                      That doesn’t mean he travels unhindered, however. Some people make the mistake of believing that because his skin is bared and his clothes foreign that he can’t handle his own in the dark streets of Zaun. He’s jumped by a man twice his size who drags him into an alley, two meaty arms wrapped around Kayn’s throat. His feet scrabble on the floor as he’s lifted, nails clawing at the skin and metal that holds him in place, but he only allows his assailant a few seconds of victory. Kayn fades away, leaving a dark sand that disperses from the man’s arms into the shadows around. Normally, Kayn offers a quick death, split in two by Rhaast or a quick snap of a neck with his bare hands, but he does not feel particularly merciful towards someone who would not have granted him the same dignity. Kayn appears a moment later, grabbing the man’s hair and yanking it down, driving his knee upwards to smash his nose. Then, Kayn’s arm turns to shadow up to the forearm and he plunges it into the man’s gut, phasing through the skin, grabbing what he feels and twisting until the scream rings in his ear. 

                                                                                      Kayn yanks his hand out and blood splatters, but he’s not done. Before his assailant has a chance to fall, Kayn crosses his arms in front of his face and the shadows gather once more, coalescing into ten sharp claws that form like a carapice over his fingers, all the way up his arms. Then, in one sharp movement, he swings his hands out and back like a swimmer, tearing through the man like he was nothing more than a thin silk curtain. Blood spits like wings up the walls on either side of him, and finally the body falls. Kayn’s eyes follow it all the way down.

                                                                                   “You have to choose your mark carefully,” Kayn says to what’s left of him, pressing the sole of his shoe onto what was once a shoulder and rolling him over to see the look of agony frozen on his face. Disgusting. “You chose wrong.”