Patrols had been quite uneventful these last few weeks per Ira’s standards, but as always appearances must be kept and orders are orders. Their expression briefly sours further as their grip tightens along the jagged edge of the clipboard in their hands at the thought of their orders. The borough they had been assigned to was rather quiet for the time of day, so Ira’s facade had slipped away as a grimace flashed across their usually unimpressed expression. Even then, they strangled away the ill will felt towards this particular assignment— instead turning their thoughts to relish in the fact this was the last of the checks they’d have to conduct for the day. What had made this patrol bearable, as usual, was the beloved hulking creature trotting at their side with an even pace: their drakehound Yara who without her presence Ira would be loathing every assignment they’re given outside of a war room.
Ira approaches two foot soldiers stationed near a grouping of stalls, their purpose to ensure nothing out of the ordinary were to occur; at least Ira assumed, though they could care less. It becomes evident to them that this is a whole lot of talking. But Ira had been quick in running through the routine verbal checklist, making note after note with each thing the two confirmed. Yara, who had been released from her heel, wandered around each stall while assessing each one with quiet huffs. Of course, Ira isn’t worried about her meandering about— but does make note when she presses her snout down to the ground with a deep inhale, then a second time. With the final part of their check-in conducted to ensure these two have all the supplies they need for the last days of being stationed here, Ira excuses themself catching a glimpse of Yara’s backend darting around a corner with spines raised which was never a good sign.
It wasn’t that Ira was scared for Yara, no— far from it actually, their concern laid with what it was she was pursuing and their safety. And as if on cue, there’s a loud crash in the distance and a thump; it’s the snarling that follows that makes Ira quicken their pace. The scene they come up on makes their brows shoot up in surprise. Yara pinning down a child of all things, the shield of her maw drawn in as much of a grimace she could muster baring teeth ready to rend flesh at the drop of a pin. Ira can’t make out the child’s face, but surely having a drakehound looming above you in such a way would be far from a pleasant experience.
“Yara!” they commanded, grabbing her attention enough to stop from baring her teeth. Claws still pressed against the child’s shoulders with a low growl, a threat of what was to come with a simple command. “Leave it,” Ira enunciated each word clearly and with a quickness the drakehound chitters before drawing away from the child, returning to Ira’s side with a shake off but keeping her gaze directed on what she considered her target. He couldn’t be any older than seven. Ira frowns as Yara presses her head against their empty hand searching for praise for finding him.
“Do you realize what part of the bastion you are in? And what time it is?” The frown playing upon their lips deepens, brows drawing together. Their eyes dart between his face and the scrapes down his arms, then the cut along his shoulder. Gaze softening enough as a result of spying the injury, instead now taking a step closer to offer a hand to him, “I hope she did not scare you too badly.”
The movements of the Noxian military are familiar to him as his route home. Reaper watches their patrols, their training, even the way their soldiers sleep, if he can't find any rest of his own. They've already laughed off his ambitions more than once, saying he's too small, too scrawny to make a good soldier, but Reaper knows that it's more than strength that makes a warrior. If they could see his collection of items he's stolen from them, they'd understand as much. The soldiers sometimes are big and slow, unable to keep up when he darts into the bushes and wiggles under a fence. One of these days, someone is going to see his value, and Reaper will seize that moment.
He's been training. He runs through their drills in his little hideout, marches with them where they can't see them. When he's at home, he draws himself in their uniforms, imagining a future that seems within reach, if only one of them would take him at his word.
That's what he's doing shortly before things go sideways. The drakehound has his full attention this time. He's never seen one wandering freely like this, and he's in awe of the way it moves, the way the other soldiers seem to bleed fear into the air, watching it out of the corners of their eyes. At first, when it sticks its nose to the ground, Reaper leans a little furtner from his hiding spot, fascinated. But when it starts to move towards him, following exactly the path he took to get there, a singular thought takes over his mind: Run!
Reaper knows he can't outrun a drakehound. They're not clunky and awkward like soldiers can be. They're all muscle and killer instinct. But if he can just get to the fence —
"Agh!" He's slammed to the ground before he can take three steps, barely even feeling the claws against his skin as he's suddenly staring into the maw of the beast — the maw that's much bigger in person. His eyes are wide, but his mouth is stretched in an implausible grin as he takes in the adrenaline-induced hyper detail of its snout, of the saliva on its teeth. He wants to draw it. He wants to keep it.
But then it climbs off him, padding away, and Reaper can see the sky again. He doesn't respond at first to the voice — why can't he move? — but then his eyes flick towards the soldier who found him, and he forces himself to his elbows with a wince.
It's the one he'd been eyeing, before the drakehound took all of his attention. They didn't seem afraid of the creature, and she obviously obeyed them. That means he could learn from them, if he's careful about it, and have a drakehound of his own.
Reaper looks at the hand extended to him like he expects it to bite him, and leans away, obviously not accustomed to adults offering him anything but violence. He picks himself up, standing as confidently as he can while his legs still tremble with unspent adrenaline, and says, "Of course I know what time it is. You always patrol at this time. And I'm not afraid of her." Ignore the way his hands start to shake, and the way his eyes are a little too wide. Also ignore the blood that's running down his arm. He's got this completely under control. "I was just watching." Reaper's chin lifts defiantly. "I'm gonna have a drakehound too. A bigger one than yours. And I'm gonna name it Killer."
