Crossing the bridge into Piltover always felt uncomfortable for Vander, but being in the city itself felt even stranger. This was a place that had long looked down on people like him -- people that had been born in and lived in what could simply be labeled as the slums. The Underground. And while times had changed, and Zaun was on its way to independence... Sometimes, the dark memories of the past tended to cloud his perception of this place.
There was... more or less peace, or a damn good start towards it. It was a road he, Silco, and Felicia had always dreamt Zaun and Piltover would be able to build, and a road he had, deep down, never given up as being a possibility. Now that it was here, it seemed just as surreal as it was heart-wrenching that there were so many -- the rest of the children, Felicia, Connol, Silco, and so many more... that were not here to see it, not here to walk this path alongside them. Not able to enter Piltover proper with their heads held high, rather than sneaking into the grand city as thieves to pilfer riches.
They need not hide in the shadows any longer; they could walk in the light.
There was also another small matter: too many unfamiliar scents, and too many voices and sounds, all crowding his thoughts at one time. It was overwhelming. At least in Zaun he knew everyone, recognized their voices, could seclude himself when the sounds and scents became too overwhelming. But here may as well have been a completely different world to him. He weaved his way through the throngs of citizens, now and then giving a nod and murmured greeting. Each time he passed by an Enforcer, there was wariness, as though he somehow still expected the worst -- but they too were, ultimately, given the same respectful acknowledgment.
Where was he headed? Well, to the market streets, of course. He needed to grab some bottles of wine for the new bar, just to give a bit of diversity(and class maybe) to their people, and offer something familiar to any curious visitors from Piltover before giving them something stronger to drink. His steps were hurried; the sooner he did his shopping and returned home, the better. But among the assault to his senses, there came another scent, one that he couldn't entirely place. It was familiar, of that he was certain; familiar in a way that was so close in his mind to being identified, yet just out of his grasp.
Like following a thread, he began to detour from his destination, keen eyes observing the people he passed by as if in search of the source. The further he traversed along the streets, the clearer the scent became. The sensation it evoked was ... warm, comforting. Hands reaching out to him to touch with such gentleness, as though trying to guide him back. Back to...
-- There. A hooded figure, face concealed from view by the blue fabric. He moved slower, relying on a crutch for assistance. He seemed so very out of place, not because of the mobility aid, but because of his demeanor and secretiveness. The scent was, undeniably, coming from him. It made Vander as curious as it did wary, two emotions that only heightened the closer he drew.
Before he knew it, he was standing in front of the other, and his hand was gripping firmly onto the front of his shirt and shawl. The reaction by the man was nothing unexpected; one did not simply quietly accept being assaulted by another, at least not ordinarily. Still, despite the clawing, despite the attempts at freedom, Vander held fast to him. He leaned down enough to crane his head this way and that, hoping to gain a good look at the individual. But when the other turned that glare up at him, the mountain of a man's brows shot up, heterochromatic eyes widening.
An immediate revelation, of that face peering into his eyes during his transformation. The healer. No judgment, no disgust, no fear. Only a warm yet unbiased desire to help and ease the pain of a beast, conveyed through attempts at touching him. More than that, it was the being -- the man -- he recalled so distantly, as if in a dream. Those hands reaching out to him there, that plane of nothingness, trying so hard to guide him back to himself, to find him in the mire of destruction and fury that the beast had buried him in.
With a startled gasp, Vander released him. "You," he breathed in disbelief. There was no mistaking it, no mistaking that the "thread" taking hold of his senses had led him here, to this spot, to this man. With a muffled grunt, the bartender bent down to pick up the crutch and return it to its owner. "I'm not going to hurt you, don't worry. I don't make it a habit to hurt people I owe my life to."
