PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Sweet Seals For You, Always
⁂
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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occasionally subtle
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trying on a metaphor
$LAYYYTER
if i look back, i am lost
titsay
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
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@thehandofnoxus
Darius - League of Legends
Riven - League of Legends
Draven - League of Legends
Okay, so I kinda cheated by making this one into two pictures, but I had a lot of fun with it. It was also fun designing armor for Riven back when she was still in the Noxian Army.
Two requests remaining.
((I have zero regrets about asking for this one. but i am sorry about the tags ))
"You made his undergarments more modest, summoner. Good use of creative liberty."
"Forty acres, a mule, and a Garen in every brush."
Measured Tread (defaced version)
"Isn't this the same edition that tells us about that time Xin Zhao facechecked the princeling playing with his 'lance'?"
"Relics schmelics." Sarah leaned up to kiss him gently and then settled against him. The gold thread of her naval uniform gleamed in the setting sun. "Men like you will /always/ be needed--even if it's against other 'relics.'" With that last word, she made air-quotes with one hand. "Tell you what--see if you can't come with me when I ship out tomorrow morning. Ship guard or something. We're doing a sweep of the waters; I could use you by my side when we run into pirates."
His features lightened, and he turned around face her, eyes warm and grateful.
"Fresh ocean air? Violence? And thou? I'll put in my request immediately."
"You know you're not, though." Sarah slipped to his side in an effort to get in front of him, watching his face. She never let go, save to lift a hand to run her fingers through his hair. "You're the second most powerful man in Noxus. Only /one/ man can order you around, and you know damn well you're more'n just an errand boy to him. Besides, no errand boy or powder monkey could /ever/ call me his--not like you~"
He smiled, but it was fraught with melancholy and half-belief. "Men of my breed are relics, tiger lily. We know only how to fight, and die, or grow old, scarred and proud." He sighed as a gust of wind tousled his coal-black locks.
"Men like Swain are on the rise. This era of peace requires a silver tongue and gift for the intricacies of diplomacy, and though I am no simpleton, I am far too direct for most of the business of international politics."
"And just what's got you all riled up?" The redheaded bounty huntress moved up behind Darius, wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing her ample bosom against his back. She had to stand on tip-toe for her chin to reach his shoulder, but she managed, and kissed at his neck. "You're tense as a halyard, my dear Darius. Something happen?"
He had been leaning on a parapet of the Castle on Skull Mountain cracking his knuckles over and over when he heard her Cockney voice drift past his right ear.
"...Sarah," he replied, his gravel voice soft and tense. Her presence startled him, but only a moment, and he did not let on. "I cannot shake this feeling. This feeling that I am nothing by a DAMNED ERRAND BOY!"
My muse is furious, how does yours calm them down?
A small dram
Evening had given deference to night, and darkness had settled in across the city of the strong. Their Hand sat high above the dull urban roar, isolated inside his study in Darkbourne Hold. Beside him, a stack of papers rose from the desk, already having laid claim to the rest of his night. 2nd quarter reviews for high ranking officers of the Noxian military. Quill scribbled against parchment, clinked twice in the inkwell, then back to more scratching.
*Bzzzzzt. Bzzzzzt. Bzzzzzt.*
The vibration of his hexphone dropped him from his reverie with Colonel Reicheleau's training statistics. Bushy eyebrows met a moment as he read the caller ID.
He couldn't even say hello before an imperious voice spoke on the other end.
"Darius.":
"Sir."
"Come upstairs. I need your help."
Such words were seldom spoken.
"Right away, sir."
*Click*
'How erratic,' he mulled as his massive legs took the stairs two at a time up to the Grand General's annex. 'The last time he asked for help, he about died.'
Moments later, he knocked on the door to the leather-scented office.
"Enter," came the voice from inside. It still struck him, at times, the difference between the rasping imperative he used to hear, and the smooth, almost bored voice uttering it now.
"How can I be of assistance, sir," he said, taking his seat in one of the over-stuffed leather armchairs situated in front of the ornate wooden desk. Perched on the surface of the desk were 4 empty bottles of Glengragas 12-year-old scotch; utter firewater to anyone but their maker, and apparently the man in front of him as well. Swain looked sober as a Demacian nun.
From under the desk, the Master Tactician withdrew a crystal tumbler filled with more of the smokey amber liquid, and shoved it with a graceful movement of his fingers towards his second. "Drink this."
He blinked. The gesture caught the Hand off-guard. Help, he thought, had meant running a strategy by him for dealing with the presentation to the Council of Equity regarding the recently-discovered Nexus crystal in Zaun. But, of course, he acquiesced. "As you command, then."
He took a small rocks glass off a nearby tray, and filled it with two fingers of the fragrant liquor, raised his glass to his superior, and downed it in a single swig. The complex flavors of caramel and peat and...bacon? swirled in his mouth before he let it drain down his gullet. The whole time, Swain watched him, unblinking.
Finishing with a satisfied "Ahhh", he turned to to his superior. "Delicious, sir, but may I be frank?"
The Grand General nodded. "Yes. Go on."
A small hesitation, and he continued. "Just what exactly am I helping you with?"
The Master Tactician stared. "...are you intoxicated by any means?"
He gave a small frown. "I mean, I feel a little warm in my mask and throat, but I'm not drunk."
The Grand General pushed a second bottle across the desk, as if he were resentful of it. "Darius," he hissed. "...I can't get drunk. Not even a bit."
Darius stared at his commander a moment, then gave a short, barking laugh. "That is the saddest thing I've ever heard, sir."
For a moment, the Grand General stared, then buried his face in his arms over the desk.
"I take it's been like this since your procedure?" he asked. He remembered the inaugural dinner with his superior right after the rebirth. He'd had three or four drinks, but had displayed no impairment of his faculties.
"I suppose," Swain said into his desk, sullen and melancholy. It irked the Hand to see him like this.
"Oh, don't be such a baby about it...sir," he added hastily. He cursed at himself silently for his slip into over-familiarity, but he knew it was best to soldier on. "If you've grown stronger, so must your drink. We need an expert."
Swain sat back in his leather chair and stared, glowing green eyes just short of livid. The raven on the bookcase echoed, `Baby. Baby. Baby.` "You misunderstand me," the Master Tactician said coolly over his familiar's shrill cries. His nails rapped a rhythm on the polished desk. "Nevermind about it."
"Ahhh...shit. My apologies, sir. That was out of line. I've just never seen you so despondent," he plead. "Come, we should consult Gragas on the matter. Every man deserves to leave the confines of sobriety once in while, non?"
After a moment spent in inexpressive silence, his chin pinched between his thumb and forefinger, Swain corrected, "You have. Moreso. I'm not despondent. Just... mildly annoyed." Glowing eyes glanced away and the raven squawked, `Annoyed!` "I don't need to call Gragas... I just need to punch something."
He cast an aggravated glance at the raven 'Delinquent bird.' "I differentiate between despondent and depressed on the brink of death, sir. And I hope that's not why you called me up here after all..." He frowned, nervous all of sudden. He could guess that Swain did not truly know his new strength yet, and given the performance he'd put on in the gym the other day, he didn't want to be the guinea pig.
"No. It isn't. Though perhaps you could use one to the jaw for your brazenness" The phantom of a smirk flickered over his face."At any rate, I mostly desired to find whether this liquor was a poor brew or my own tolerance was to blame for my sobriety."
"I suppose I'd deserve it," he replied, eyes cast down a brief moment. "But you honestly have no desire to find a potent enough concoction to affect you even in your...evolved state?"
"Not now." The ghost of Swain's humor evaporated; he pushed a half-full bottle across the desk. "Someday," he sighed. "Drink."
The Hand squinted at the Grand General, somewhat taken aback. He could feel anger rising in his stomach, but he squashed it down in favor of growing incredulity. "You've proven your point, sir, and I've evaluations for half the officer corps still piled up on my desk that I was aiming to decimate tonight. Is this really necessary?"
The briefest flash of something other than imperious pride and smugness shone in the Grand General's stare: something human. Then, after a moment's silence, he answered, "No." And then, "You're dismissed," his mask of impassivity restored. `Dismissed, dismissed, dismissed,` Beatrice chimed.
A flicker of confusion crossed the Hand's eyebrows, playing into his beetle-black eyes a moment. Then he stood, saluted, and strode from the office, shaking his head to himself once he was clear of Swain's view.
|-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------|
Back in his office late that night, he felt the incredulity of his earlier meeting with the Grand General bubbling and roiling around inside his head.
'Colonel So-and-so...Hrmph!'
He tossed the quill on his desk in frustration, and swiveled around to face the big bay windows that looked out over his protectorate.
'Since when has he not wanted to solve a problem...?'
He shook his head as the twinkling lights of Noxus, the countryside, and the refugee camps were laid bare before him, resplendent in their resilient prosperity.
'Eh. I'm just a powerful pawn. You've dug your own grave Darius. Just enjoy the fresh air till he pushes you into the ground.'
A disappointed sigh left him as soon as the thought was finished, and he swung back around to face his paperwork once more, rubbing his eyes.
'No sense dwelling. We share a vision. That is enough for me. I still serve Noxus first and foremost.'
"Forever Strong," he muttered to no one in particular.
// wELP.
"Father, I think I have a problem." The woman was young, but no child. She sighed and stood at attention before her father, her hands folded behind her back. Her chin was raised stoutly and her eyes never wavered from Swain's face. "I seem to have... grown an attachment, but I don't believe it'll..." Frustration took over her lovely face and she sighed, her shoulders sagging. "... I think I may have some feelings for Darius, but I fear..." She brought her gaze to his face, unsure of what to say.
"The General-Hand to you, Eleanor,” her father corrected sternly. He pursed his lips in the disapproval she must have been expecting as he leaned back against his desk. “He is wed, for Noxus’ sake, and thrice your age.”
Blazing green eyes flared as Swain folded his sculpted arms over his chest, as ageless in form as he had been the day his lovestruck daughter was born. “I warn you, mon alouette, do not make unnecessary enemies for yourself,” the Grand General paused pointedly, set his jaw and stared his grown child down. “Or for me. You know full well that Darius will spurn your advances—and that Sejuani will not be forgiving should she discover your intent.”
Incredulous, the Master Tactician shook his head. His tone took on a dangerous, forbidding quality: “I did not raise you to be ruled by your emotions or your flighty impulses. Forget this doomed notion. You will be betrothed to a mate worthy of you, my child.” Blazing eyes flared with conviction. The bird on Swain’s desk cawed in expression of her master’s grim displeasure. “And for your next tour, you will be re-stationed in Zaun.
"You will not return to the Freljord without my permission."
*facepalms*
Starting in about an hour
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A Message
Not two days after Darius’ speech in Zaun, the Duchess Karma’s voice rang out through hexradios all along the eastern coast. Swain sat on the edge of his bed, listening, his hexphone clutched in one trembling, claw-like hand. She spoke of change and tradition, of the wounds of the past and the healing of the future, of how water that stops flowing turns stagnant: insipid Ionian ideology. But beneath her idealistic pandering lay a message, a diamond in the rough. The Master Tactician caught its glimmer, a smirk spreading over his face.
His communication device vibrated in his grip.
To the conclusion of Her Grace’s address, Swain listened closely—though what naive reassurances she offered to her people were less important than the mewling of the crowd. Crimson eyes flared. The broadcast captured boos and cheers, sobs and shouts from those gathered at the Placidium: a people divided. Perfect.
Withered fingers moved again over the buttons on his hexphone in careful concentration to make up for their tremor.
Cracked lips pursed behind the general’s shroud.
He waited, his mind racing, until just minutes later when his hexphone rang with the Noxian National Anthem to indicate an incoming call.
"Darius," came the Master Tactician’s croak. “Have the lot of you yet listened to the Placidium broadcast there in Zaun?”
"I read the transcript as it was posted on my phone’s feed, sir. If Dunderson’s seen it, he hasn’t let on."
"Good." The Master Tactician turned his head from the receiver to cough, withered fingers covering the phone. "You will deliver the news to the Zaunite Liberal Council yourself—and do not permit them to make a public statement on it. Not yet. It behooves us to behave and to appear in accordance with the ideals we’ve set forth."
"Yes, sir. What of Zed?"
A hiss of breath passed through his graying teeth. “Fortunate I’ve had this line secured, Darius, don’t you think?” Swain chided. Again he cleared his throat.
"I assumed there was a reason you did not have me call via mobile."
"He is aware…" came the general’s belabored wheeze, "if he is threatened… we will come to his aid. You know the statutes of citystate-hood set forth by the Institute of War?"
"I admit I’m not as intimately familiar with them as perhaps I should be."
"In order to maintain influential standing and representation within the Institute of War, a citystate must be capable of internal governance—…”
Summoning magics tugged at his subconscious. His breath caught in his chest.
…merde.
The line went dead.
Hundreds of miles away in Zaun, Darius frowned as his superior’s voice cut out, then glanced up to the hexscreen perpetually aglow over Magnus Dunderson’s opulent office. The color drained from his face. “…Oh gods, no. No! Fucking fuck!”
Read More
Submit to me.
Thrill me.
Forget me.
Kill me.
I’m empty inside, as always. I’m walking the highways of my mind, abandoned in the solitude of time.
It just keeps ticking forward—though I think I once out-paced it, ran and raced it towards the Absolute Destination.
Now I’m nothing.
Now I sit in stasis while my nation thrives beneath me.
We did a good thing.
But instead of weeping, I should be reaping what we sowed.
They need me, you know. (Don’t they?)
But I’m empty inside.
As always.
Sometimes I feel as though I’ve nothing left to give.
Sometimes I feel as though I’ve no will left to live.
There’s nowhere to hide from this.
It’s an all-consuming nothingness.
No, no, it’s nothing.
There’s a word for it.
Invisible.
One nation, indivisible.
We wanted that.
We made it.
We strove for this.
We gave it our everything and watched it take wing and we trembled.
But me more than you.
It’s true.
I never told you before, but I’m sorry.
Do you believe in serendipity?
Stop it.
I gave you purpose; I made you breathe.
I made your existence dependent on me.
So you’d help me.
I’m empty inside.
As always.
Save me from myself.
I just want to be somebody
anybody
else.
//All the feels. ily Swenbro
// Hi, everyone! Quick OOC before we return to your regularly scheduled Machiavellian musings, existential streams of consciousness and assorted imperious dictator things.
I just applied as a writer to Riot Games.
Holy minotaur am I nervous! One of the things I learned...
"If you maggots desire excellent writing and lore, then you will reblog immediately. HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR, PLEBS?"
// The KING IN THE NORTH and other silliness
Based Birdman: // now Swain sits at his desk and buries his face in his arms, just tiiiiiiired of the endless struggle of... everything. Severely dissatisfied with the way Darius' perception of him is shifting, despite how it will be a good thing in the end. How he loathes being 'human!'
Dari-Dawg: //lol he wanted to remain the aloof commanding officer, only dealing with respectful inquiries and light banter. But yeah, it'll be good in the end. The more Darius knows, the easier it is for him to deflect and protect.
Based Birdman: // My bestiiiiieeee. T_T God, Swain is going to be SO appreciative of that. He meant what he said about wanting Darius 'on his side.' And when he sees the way it's going to be, the phrase 'the loyal are rewarded' will come to be well understood. c:
Dari-Dawg: //awwwwww yisss. Muthafuckin reapin the benefits.
Based Birdman: // you gon be rich, bitch. I set u up with princess poon for wicked good sex, strong babies and your own territory. King in the North! ...I so imagine your son and my daughter like Bam Bam and Pebbles lmfao
Dari-Dawg: //WOAD KING DARIUS INC! Oh man, Olaf gonn be jelly. And it'll be more like Wednesday from the Addams family and young Leonidas from 300 XD
Based Birdman: // WELL YEAH BUT. Lols, and then we will be brothers through their wedding. c:
Dar-Dawg: //don't lie. its perfect. Although Fred Swainstone and Darney Dunkle, The Hand of Bedrock is hilarious to think about. and yay! in-laws!
Based Birdman: // Hahahaha. What's funny is, my faceclaim headcanon for Evaine is Christina Ricci, and young Christina Ricci is Wednesday. XD ...OH MY GOD OUR KIDS ARE GOING TO BE LIKE RAVEN AND JOCK-BEASTBOY
Dari-Dawg: //hahahahahaha yusssssss.
//Someone please draw Fred Swainstone and Darney Dunkle, Hanna-Barbara style?
NOXUS.
Forever Strong.
"We need a doctor here!"
40: Amnesia
30 CLE
She’s sitting in the rubble, toying with the choker around her neck. She barely seems to register the wreck around her: fallen white bricks in haphazard piles, not another civilian soul for miles. Clad in standard gold and green, a soldier rounds the corner. “You there,” he snaps to warn her. “Stand up, slowly.”
She looks bewildered, but does as she’s required, hands up, curious but tired. “What’s your name,” the soldier demands. She shakes her head. She doesn’t know. The man walks towards her, slow. “Hands behind your head.” Dirty fingers raise and intertwine with knotted golden locks. She glances past he soldier towards the docks, watching flocks of ravens flutter in waves from mast to mast. She wonders why there are so many here. “General-Hand, sir! Got a survivor.”
Darius’ hulking silhouette can be seen approaching, his axe hefted over his shoulder, each stride double that of an average man’s, each pauldron like a boulder. His beetle-black eyes widen slightly when they alight upon the woman’s dirty form. “Steward,” he addresses her out of habit. The soldier salutes his superior, then stands off to the side at attention. Tybresa looks confused.
Darius quirks a brow. With her homeland in ruins around them, he’s not quite certain what he’d been expecting (a bow, bitter tears, a defiant glare) but it’s not the vacant stare with which he’s met. She doesn’t even seem upset. He watches her in the stony silence for a few more moments, lifting his chin before turning to depart. “Bring her in,” he barks.
"Sir," the soldier speaks. He takes Tybresa by the elbow and leads her down the ruined Demacian streets in his commander’s wake. Her sky-blue eyes are blank.
