#shadow!ez

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@shadowhelmed

✫ — Ezreal doesn’t understand why Zed insists on sending the two of them on missions. Like, he gets it, intellectually—sending his two best students ensures that the job gets done and it gets done well. With Ezreal and Kayn working together, even if their diligence doesn’t get it done, their competitiveness will, but ... 

     “Seriously!” Ezreal curses as he jams his xiphoid blades into the throat of one of the enemy soldiers that was still breathing. The soldier gurgles in a way that makes his stomach twist, and Ezreal has to lean away as he rips the blade out again. “Have you ever seen Master Zed cleave someone in two? The amount of energy you waste...” Says the guy who’s meticulously prodding at fallen enemies with his boot, even as his face grows paler with each passing minute that he picks through them. “Spirits be damned. I’ll never understand why he likes you so much.”

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@icebornsovereignty​ from x

❅; Syndra’s eyes would dim for a few moments, before brightening back up to their usual glowing blue, she was surprised that he seemed to have changed so much in her time away. Not that it was a bad thing. “You seem much more lovely now, for one who used to be so full of light.” chuckling a bit.

影 — An eyebrow will raise, though he is far from taking offence. “I have never been called lovely before,” the disciple notes, though perhaps it is for nought. “Though there is little light in me. Is it possible to be dark and lovely all at once? Truly?”

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reminisce.

@summonersauronbane from x

“How could I forget?” The man replied, a grin upon his lips that would surely have reached up into his eyes, if they were visible. As it was, he let out a light laugh instead, shaking his head slowly.

“It was a day I doubt I could ever forget. My first adventure in Ionia… With a young man that has grown so much since then,” Here his grin turned to a conspiratorial smirk. Another small chuckle, and shake of his head, “Do you still have the outfit?”

影 — It was a strange sensation that settled over him like smoke in a room. Something not dissimilar to when Zed bestowed upon him his approval, but without the weight of expectation. Without the brutality that seemed to ripple in everything his master did. Without the expected subservience. 

     The smile that twitches on his lips is cautious; unsure, but he is not certain that he mislikes it. There is no cruelty in it, and Ezreal seems to soften around the edges. “I do,” he responds, “though it grows smaller every day.”

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@gxldendemon

影 — He’d grown increasingly sullen as their visit had dragged on, and Ezreal now sat on the steps of the shadow temple, polishing the metal of his right gauntlet. The gem still glowed darkly upon his left wrist and his eyes were stone, his lips taut. There was a thinly veiled-impatience in the line of his shoulders, but Ezreal didn’t look up at the sound of footsteps behind him.

     “Has he grown tired of you, then?” The disciple asks thinly, eyes on the gleaming blade even as he can’t see it through the restlessness that stretches out through his veins. A hiss escapes between his teeth. “A pity.”

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Mom + Did you and your husband approve of how Ezreal chose to live his life?

Send me ‘Mom’ + A Question and my muse’s mother will answer it.

      The thought seems to trouble the woman, just a little. Her lips press together, bloodless for a moment before she responds. “We wanted the best for him. He was born with a rare gift, you see. Magic of his sort is highly sought-after in Piltover, so we wanted him to learn to use it, and to be successful. He … Carlisle would be stern with him, but Ezreal was already cutting class, even young as he was. We wouldn’t have minded his hobby so much, only it got in the way of his schooling, and we were afraid that he would get lost.” 

      A pause, though only to collect herself. “We did it out of love, and I’m afraid that he thought we didn’t love him when he left. I’m still afraid of that.”

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♚ :A time when you showed mercy /aka: Have you ever been weak? :D

Ask a Killer

影 — Things like ‘mercy’ and ‘weakness’ are subjective. For Zed, they’re synonymous. Ezreal was more prone to wishing for them when he was younger, but after achieving a level of power and control over the Order only bested by Zed himself, the disciple found that he could act on it all the better. 

     If someone invoked the wrath of the Order, they were destined to suffer. Zed didn’t show mercy. Ezreal had never met anyone more against the idea than his master, and he had many ways to exact his punishment. Torture was one of Zed’s favourite ways to dole out the Order’s special brand of cruelty. Ezreal watched. Sometimes participated, but he had proven his loyalty a thousand times over already, so it wasn’t required of him so much as others. Ezreal couldn’t really remember what this man had done, but Zed was standing at his side, arms folded, as a younger got close and personal with the prisoner. 

     There might have been a time where the process made Ezreal feel nauseous, or guilty, but today it only made him feel disgusted. Half-concealed by his scarf, the young man’s lips twisted, first in a grimace and then a scowl, because the sight of the prisoner’s hanging limbs and the sounds of his whimpereing was truly beginning to grate on his nerves. Was there truly something that was so bad that this man deserved such a fate? At what point is it gratifying those watching, rather than exacting punishment?

     Regardless of exactitudes, this man had passed that point. His suffering was no longer justified. Ezreal broken from his master’s side, smooth and mean as a panther, and seemed to move the younger disciple with nothing more than force of will. The younger will glance up at the look on Ezreal’s face and step aside like water for a rock. As he steps closer, driven by his aimless fury, Ezreal’s xiphoid blade slides from its sheath with the cool, familiar whisper of metal. Ezreal doesn’t speak, but the line of his mouth says this is enough. 

       His fist shoots out, close enough to the man’s throat that he could raise a finger and touch the raw skin there, but he doesn’t. The metal on either side is enough. Ezreal wrenches his arm hard to the side and drenches his front in blood before the prisoner could so much as whimper (how he hates that sound.)

       Behind him, he can sense Zed’f fury, but for now all Ezreal can feel is sweet satisfaction, and the warmth of blood  on the exposed skin of his hand.

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'Mom' + What expectations did you have for your son, and how did he fulfill (or not fulfill) them?

Send me ‘Mom’ + A Question and my muse’s mother will answer it.

     A note of surprise shows on her soft features, with round green eyes and lips parting slightly. It had been a while since Hannah had heard anyone speak of her son who had gone missing so many years ago. Finally her eyes lower, and her pretty mouth sets into an unhappy line. “I had hoped that he would grow strong and capable, and that he would succeed in whatever he set his mind to. He was a smart boy, you know, and I’m certain he would have amazed us all. I wanted him to do what would make him happy, and … I suppose the last thing he did was explore, which was his favourite thing of all.”

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"I don't remember you being so dark, Ezreal, I quite like it."

影 — There’s something so perfectly youthful about the way he throws his head back, with the lines of his canines sharp against the darkness of his mouth. He’s laughing, pleased, but the boyish nature of his mirth contrasts so sharply with his usual hard-as-steel attitude. “Dark is a word for it,” he responds, stringing the word out between the edges of his smile. “Certainly ... it fits.”