#Vixtionary

[mercless]

(( this is not billye ))

The procession traversed through abandoned paths, treading on mossy stone with practiced ease. Their cloaks dragged, edges fraying into the darkness to the point where one could barely make out the hood of those in front of them. It would be easy to blend in; in the silence, perhaps easier than simply follow. The rhythm of their joined steps provided cover. And they would continue their cavalcade until they reached that deeper, abandoned cavern.

Leading the coup, the slender frame with a dash of red halted before a particular barricaded exit. There once was a passageway there; one meant for water to traverse. Dusting off the stone blocking it further uncovered the corroded seal beneath; whoever had etched that so long ago was most likely gone now. Their faded work was doubted to succeed in sealing whatever it was they had been trying to cage. The party leader held their light up to illuminate its design.

A circle, with three points forming a triangle within. They remained staring at it a moment too long. And then the figurehead produced a dagger, with which they pricked a single finger; and, dragging the fresh wound over dead stone painted a dot in the middle. The design now resembled a blooded eye.

A pregnant pause.

And then the walls rumbled; a deep roar, complete with dirt and particles flooding the stale air. Some coughed, revealing voices that did, in fact, sound human and buried their faces in their elbows for protection. But once the dust had settled, the road ahead was clear. A path so narrow only one would fit through at a time. It extended into a spiralling corridor. The party leader threw a glance over their shoulder, once again flaunting that single read streak that had somehow escaped their cover. After ensuring that everything was seemingly in place (it would be too dark to tell much, either way) they brought the lantern close to their face and blew out the wick.

Darkness enveloped everything. There were footsteps. With a palm on wet walls serving as their only guide, they marched deeper...

It had been worrisome at first, following after the source of reverbing footsteps before the dim light was viewable again. A single wrong turn could have led the assassin into unknown peril, instead of the one they willingly chased. But it isn't long before the dark silhouettes were caught up with, and considering the setting, Talon gets as close as they dared to the final one in the marching order. Every decision to press on made the window of opportunity to back out slimmer and slimmer. Eyes boring into the dark robe in front of them, they take time during the silent expedition to lay out and consider the situation they had so willingly placed themself in.

Suspicious behaviour of multiple unknown persons, wandering - no, they were too sure-footed to just be wandering - into the catacombs that were largely considered too dangerous and too unlawful to venture into. On the slim idea that one of the members had, what, seemingly red hair? How foolish of a cause! Instead of tripping over their personal motives, Talon is quick to right themself with the fact that these individuals were blatantly up to something, and didn't want to be known about. No one with good intentions met and schemed down here.

Talon is cautious in their movements, now. Hands kept close and steps light as possible, seeking the higher placed stones. It didn't get any drier down here. Only more stifling. And stale. When the figures come to a halt, the assassin does their best to watch for why without being too obvious, peering over covered shoulders toward the hidden passage. Wisdom once riddled to them in a hushed tone echoes in their mind, seeing those runes be uncovered. And their focus briefly snaps to the corners where the lantern light did not reach, to check for feathery wings. What Talon could see of the small ritual tightened their chest, unsure of what to expect when the symbol was completed. So when the tunnels growled to life around the makeshift party, they hoped their jump of surprise wasn't visible. Head kept low until the sounds of displaced earth and rubble ceased, the beating of their heart from excess adrenaline felt like a fever beneath clammy skin. Looking up is when they spot it again. That damn loose strand of hair, taunting them to unmask who its owner was. Only after glaring at it through the gloom for a moment too long, did Talon attempt to draw back into their hood, to keep features out of sight. But it needn't be a worry for long, because with one quick motion, everything went black.

It's disorienting, for the first few moments, when the underground returns to its natural state. It feels like the world has pushed in on them and is ready to gobble them up; it takes stepping back into the side of the cold, uneven wall to remind them the location hasn't changed. Talon could hear them, continuing onward. It feels as if this is the final crossroads. Only the cloaked ones seemed to know how deep their journey would take them. At the very least, the passageway was narrow enough that they would have time as the others pushed through to think, and decide. It was stupid to go further in, blindly following these mysterious figures. Would they be able to escape if found out? Fight? Would the ancient magic offering this passage then close to seal their fate, tombed away after being lured in by the colour of hair? The faded, minuscule hope left in them held on to the implausible, unlikely thought that it truly was him, though. What if he needed them? Their final chance to save him, from whatever and whoever this was, keeping him in the dark all this time?! Talon feels a presence shift, then. The final figure they had hidden behind moved to bring up the rear now. And nearly instinctually, the assassin was right behind them. Whatever this was; cult activity, trap, or final chance, they would be prepared.

Finding the sleek sides that marked the narrow passage, Talon would turn sideways and shuffle through with a single hand ghosting the wall so they knew when it ended, and knife at the ready. The smell of wet stone and old water invades their senses now. They travelled calmly, never wanting to touch the one before them. And listening to everything around them.

#‡ ic #‡ ask #vixtionary #<- maybe. who can tell really #Secrets best kept deep within #i love catacomb adventures. clap if you love catacomb adventures. #long post / #claustrophobia /

[umbane]

A blackbird perches quietly atop the ever-stirring tree branches. It watches, with a curious tilt of the head; unblinking, observing the young assassin's training session through keen, beady eyes. When noticed, it wouldn't flee; instead its long beak would part to release a sound eeriely reminiscent of a human voice... "Crah! Stand in line! Attention! Reaper..."

It's not unusual that birds stop nearby, curious about what's happening below or simply pausing to rest. It has been so long since he was in Noxus that he has almost entirely separated the association of blackbirds and the Grand General, but there's still a part of his mind that remembers the boy he was on the streets who would always crane his neck to look at them, as if they'd report back to Swain about the urchin with the messy ponytail who was making exceptional progress with his throwing daggers, and the handaxe, and the short sword, all stolen.

But he's not that boy any more, so he doesn't dwell on how the empire took all his admiration and his dreams of glory and left them in a broken heap in the sucking mud. He doesn't dwell on it — just trains so that he never has to feel so weak again.

The bird stays, and after a while Kayn pauses his drills and turns towards it. He's lived in this land too long and seen too much to dismiss the idea of spirits, and of beings that take mundane forms to hide their true shape. His dark eyes meet its, narrowing slightly like he can see through any glamour it may wear.

And then it speaks —

It speaks, and Kayn turns to ice.

It's not just a chill, though goosebumps prickle all the way from his shoulders to the backs of his calves. How long has it been since he heard that name? He had told it to Zed once, though neither of them had ever used it. He had carved it into stone and wood, brick and metal throughout the capital, like the prevalence of his name alone could make the military notice him.

Had the rumours been true? Had the Grand General known about him? About everything that happens in Noxus? Had this bird tracked him down? Would it report back?

Kayn can't move. His legs are blocks of ice, nailed to the soft ground below. The more he stands there, the more it feels unstable, like mud. As quickly as the fear struck him, the doubt follows — had he imagined it? Was it another trick of his tattered memory? ...

Kayn stays where he is, barely breathing, and waits in terror to see if the bird will speak again.

#vixtionary #only one man can inspire this level of pure fear in kayn I think #and he doesn't even have to be there #what was written in shadow — now in flesh / answered.

[noxianwilled]

He walked silently into his office, footfalls silenced by thick Shuriman carpeting. Prioritizing the absence of light, he headed for the large window only to find it was already open; a breach concealed by heavy drapes. He pulled them open, to reveal the city awakening slowly beneath. And with it, something else would be illuminated as well. A bundle of crimson locks sprawled over his office couch. Her arm dangled from the couch, slumped as she was on the pillows. A few new scratches littered an otherwise porcelain complexion; the gift of youth. In her loosened grip rested a document, coiling under the involuntary twitch of her finger. Eyes narrowed over the bloodstained missive. He recognized his own crest in the wax sealing a certain Steward's fate.

Thick brow quirked, his otherwise unmoving expression melting into a satisfied smirk. Momentary. With a cat-like approach, unexpected for a man of his stature, he slipped out of his coat and carefully draped it over her slumbering form, instead. Aside from the subtle pop in his bad knee, however, he would be especially quiet whilst assuming his place in his office desk, where papers awaited to determine the course of many other lives.

— @vixtionary

Rest is a luxury she can't always afford. That may not have been her outlook on it always, but Katarina had learned better than to take it for granted when the safety and comfort of a protected home had been left behind. There are few places where one can truly lower their guard as much, allowing for the vulnerability of easy targets to become theirs, albeit momentarily. A moment is all that is necessary for a life to be taken, after all.

But sometimes, rest becomes more demand than luxury.

After several days of running on as little sleep as possible (she was busy, the assassin reasoned; proper sleep could wait), the effect of her choice had made itself felt all at once. As the adrenaline that kept her fully aware throughout her mission faded and Katarina slipped into the Grand General's office to await his return, the feeling of sore muscles made itself felt; by the time she sat on the couch and idleness took over, her mind too began to feel the effects of exhaustion, lulled into comfortable quietness until the world faded.

Few are the moments when she looks so peaceful. Digits leave their mark on paper, strength poorly measured in unconsciousness, and were it not for the blood staining the document, some of which inevitably stains her fingertips also, nothing about her would denounce just what Katarina had been busy with before. The knives and daggers and armor, all in place even as she lays curled up on the couch, add to the warning of the fatal mistake it would be to be deceived by her innocent countenance.

Arms and armor may prove an inconvenient source of irritation for others; to her, the discomfort of steel offers the comfort of safety — as does the location, the familiarity of the office (and the trust in its owner) allowing the assassin the rarity of deep slumber. In habitual circumstances, Katarina would have easily opened her eyes at the first rays of light filtering through the window with the pull of the drapes; at most, she would have awakened with the weight of fabric, as the coat is carefully draped over her form.

Perhaps there would be a lesson to be learned when she woke up, that important as her work may be, her body was but human, with limitations that she needed be more mindful of. For now, she stirs only slightly, unconsciously adjusting to pull the coat around herself more closely. Comfortable, all movement ceases but for the nigh imperceptible rise and fall indicative of silent, deep breathing.

#precious 🤧 (she just killed a man) #really precious 🤧 (he's evil and scheming) #» in character — ⌜the sinister blade.⌟ #vixtionary

[matrilinear]

(( ooc question, favorite soreana hairstyle ? How long does she let it grow ? Would she be seen with her hair loose ? ))

Unprompted asks • always welcome!

I've said before it was one of the qualities she received a lot of praise for. That's because it was very long, at times reaching mid-thigh length, well cared-for, and lend itself splendidly to styling. Nowadays, she wears it at mid-back length.

In Soreana's culture covering the hair up is common; started off for practical reasons as strong waterborne winds would be blowing it every which way. Second to that, Vindorian folk lock the hair into place through braiding.

As to whether she would be seen wearing it loose, I tried doing some research to pinpoint exactly why people have been historically wearing their hair up. Apparently it was a symbol of sensuality; ergo, young people would wear it loose to incite desire while mature people would put it up to maintain an image of sexual frigidity. I did snag one idea off of a study on ancient Greek hairstyling [src]; it being that mourners would wear it loose as part of the grieving process. Given Soreana's still actively wearing mourning garments and despite the fact she prefers to wear it up for reasons I've discussed before, I believe the nobles ultimately would give her a pass if she decided to wear it half-up.

But enough about academia and the real world. It's time to get funky.

Note that back in the era of insane hairstyles she used to have people helping her out even if she was the one drawing up the sketches. At the height of her vanity, she was likely controlling the whole process so the final result would be exactly as she'd imagined it.

I do believe she enjoyed those hairstyles where one uses the hair to craft accessories. There was enough of it to achieve some intricate necklacework, for example. More so once they had moved to Shurima where adornment is common.

Other than that, she would also wear headdresses like the one shown in the comic (middle) and whenever she wouldn't be wearing one she enjoyed having her hair sculpted some way (left, right).

#》. answered #》. headcanons #vixtionary #this was so much fun to research and think about #thank you billye 💖 #tumblr wouldn't group images so i screenshot them :(

[shehili]

iris : if your muse could convey one last message to someone they have lost or left behind , what would it be ? AND aloe : how does your muse handle grief ? AND for research purposes ivy : what are your muse’s views on marriage ? do they believe it is something strictly for love , or an institution rooted in business & social benefits ? do they desire or have they desired to be married ? (if you've answered any before feel free to skip, thank u )

SOURCE • always open!

IRIS: if your muse could convey one last message to someone they have lost or left behind, what would it be?

This was a bit of a headscratcher. I'm assuming it's referring to someone she's already lost or left behind.

There's a couple people deserve the honor of a last message from her. Things she wishes she had said in life but didn't because of such feelings as shame or pride. How about:

"You should have listened to me."

I think it's funnier if I leave the recipient out.

ALOE: how does your muse handle grief?

Poorly. You'd think after so much loss that she'd have learned to carry grief more gracefully. The governor's perfect as a statue while in public, and cries every so often when shielded from judgmental eyes. There was a time when she would internalize it, even becoming frustrated with herself whenever she failed, but after becoming physically ill several times, she eased off of internalizing.

IVY: what are your muse's views on marriage? do they believe it is something strictly for love, or an institution rooted in business & social benefits? do they desire or have they desired to be married?

I believe the Shuriman concept of marriage to be close to Ancient Egypt's; a contract. Property is catalogued and transferred, with divorce requiring certain terms be respected so neither side is left destitute. Moreover, spouses may take on as many lovers as they can financially support. The average Shuriman limits themself to one or two. That's not to say spousal love is rare, quite the contrary.

In short, it is an institution created to preserve respect and equality between partners spurred on by such feelings as romantic love, though not always.

Mariam has a favorable outlook on marriage influenced by positive models in her life, literature, and not lastly, exposure to different cultures. Your own spin on Noxian customs she'd find rather enchanting. I'm certain she researched it at some point in her life, perhaps going so far as to have learned some Ur-Nox.

She's always wanted it. It's obviously not a priority, more so a longing that hasn't yet been fulfilled. She's not looking to get spliced with the first person who shows promise, either. Her more or less secret engagement to Ta'Fik was broken because they couldn't agree on whether bringing other people in would be OK; he wanted to, she didn't. Too jealous.

She doesn't regret it.

#/ answered #/ headcanons #vixtionary #thank you for the ask :')

[nameaprice]

🌻 * bird tap on the window *

Sivir says random shit / @vixtionary

"Did you know that Worm-eating Bassian thrushes dislodge their prey from piles of leaves by directing their farts at them? The gas shifts the leaf-litter on the ground and provokes worms to move around, revealing their location."

#|| inbox replies #vixtionary

[children-of-trifarian]

@vixtionary continued from Here

One could always tell when inspection was coming when the singing stopped. Among the clatter of metal against wood and steel the hum of various songs would always rumble through the work of the warmasons. There was never any consistency in tune across any camp as the diversity of the Empire brought together songs from every corner of its borders. Like any other day Caitiff simply mumbled along with her fellow workers' song of wistful memories of farm life, until it was suddenly cut off with anxious whispers.

The Grand General’s entourage had apparently arrived at their outpost causing panic and curiosity to ripple through the other workers. Caitiff just sighed not bothering to even catch a glimpse of the surveying legionaries; half because she was currently wedged underneath a ballista tightening rivets worn by use, and half because she didn’t care to. Did the other warmasons forget that they worked directly with the Trifarian Legion? It shouldn’t come as a shock for either the Grand General or the Hand to pass through here. Besides what would his presence matter to most of them, their superiors would get new orders and they would be reassigned elsewhere. Only thing Caitiff could personally hope for is to be stationed with her battle sister Megaera in Shurima; she hadn’t seen her since they fought together in Ionia. 

Her foreman barking her name catches Caitiff off guard as she quickly wiggles out from under the war machine, mud and dust clinging onto her attire as she stands. “You and I are needed at the main tent, Grand General wants to see us.” The orders of her superior echo across several ears as a dozen eyes all turn at once towards the younger warmason. Jealousy, and amusement paint the faces of her fellow workers, some whispering to one another and others openly mocking Caitiff. Breathing in deeply she pushes away the initial anxiety and walks forward, causally throwing her tools at the feet of those that harassed her. “Well why don’t you prove yourself better and finish fixing the ballistas’.” Caitiff sneers walking off with her foreman. They couldn’t, she was the only one small enough to repair those unreachable gaps, but until she came back they’d have to find a way or admit their incompetence. 

Striding quickly towards the main tent the original pang of dread resurfaces out of her own confusion at the situation. Of course the supervisors were being summoned, they were probably just going to be reassigned as usual, but why her? Was she to be promoted? That seemed unlikely, though she was no apprentice, Caitiff was still young and lacked experience. Was she being accused of something? Caitiff couldn’t think of doing anything wrong, at least nothing that would warrant an accusation from the Grand General. Stepping into the main tent the young warmason did her best to bottled her unease behind a neutral face, as a leader of the Empire graced the room.

Caitiff had only ever seen the Grand General’s visage through interpretations, particularly the great statute of Vision the stood ever watching outside the Immortal Bastion. Yet seeing Swain in person was different then she had expected. Though he commanded the room with the authority one should expect of a leader of Noxus, Caitiff could tell he bore scars and experience the same way every veteran did. Piercing red eyes at the same time waved away any relatable humanity he would give off, making him unnaturally intimating.                   

Even as the other warmasons grew elated at the news of their promotions, Caitiff stood still wary in slight disbelief at what was going on. As their letters were being handed out, Caitiff glanced at her foreman as he was handed one with the stewardship of Urzeris. Damn it, that's where Meg was, if Caitiff hadn't been summoned here in only a few weeks she’d have been with her sister again. What was so important that required her to be here- oh.

The engraving of a bird skull stared back at her, and Caitiff was affixed to the spot in disbelief. It was only after Grand General guard’s explained the situation that her confusion and anxiety finally formed into words. Swain's response at first did little to help her understand her original question and she simply paused waiting for him to finish. Nearly alone in the tent the brazier's light danced against the shadows and in the silence something itched at the back of her mind. Caitiff looked at Swain again, this time squinting as if trying to gaze something on his person. Something hidden in the darkness. . .

it can see me

Caitiff gasped as she stumbled backward a step. As soon as she had sensed its presence, it disappeared in the flickering light of the fires. What was THAT? What did he mean by power? Did he know about her sixth sense? Caitiff had never told anyone but Meg about the things she could see, it was dangerous to let a secret like that slip. There were always rumors of magically sensitive people going missing in Noxus, and though her ‘talents’ were barely more than an overactive sense of deja-vu, she still kept it to herself. 

Steadying herself, Caitiff righted her posture and silently saluted the Grand General. Even if she was nervous about such a thing being revealed there wasn’t much she could do to escape from it. And more so if Swain was like any of those nefarious enough to kidnap random mages, why would he bother to promote her in the first place. Quietly she followed the guards to go collect her things, silently hoping this initial bout of awkwardness didn’t completely ruin Swain’s first impressions of her.

Stepping back outside now escorted by the Grand General guards, Caitiff exhaled and allowed herself a moment of respite from her anxieties. Turning her attention to her letter of recruitment she broke the seal carefully so as to not destroy the original wax stamp. As she read through her new duties a goblin-like smile paints her face if only for a moment. Megaera would always boast about her own liberation at the hands of the mighty Darius himself. How the Hand of Noxus had saved her from her old tyrannical king, that this was the reason she fought and bled to become a Trifarian Legionnaire. Despite all her boasting, Megaera didn’t seem to get noticed by her General anymore, her story fading into the many others that also claimed victories alongside the Hand. Yet here Caitiff was holding a document that literally proved even without reading it that the Grand General had chosen her to serve as his warmason. Whenever they would be reunited together, Caitiff could not wait to show it to her battle sister, and rub it in her face for a very long time.

#vixtionary #IC Caitiff #hihi I hope this isn't too long #Caitiff: AHHHH i got called in to see the grand general sdgkjdsnfglfucking NERVOUS #also Caitiff: LMAO Meg’s gonna be so jealous

[necroarchy]

@vixtionary continuing this

“ Of course there’s worse -- it stands before you. ”

Ankles crossed, shoulder pressed against the wall at a lazy slant -- he shows more interest in adjusting his gauntlets than his … friend’s mortal coil. All things in good time. 

“ What freedom is there in your little existence? Death has collared you all. Its shackles will drag you down into the dirt eventually. You speak of liberty and The Inevitable with the same breath and don’t choke on the contradiction? General. I thought higher of you. ”

All things.

#you'd be surprised :/ #// #vixtionary #﹙ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴɢᴇʟꜱ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴇ. ﹚ interactions. #﹙ ᴘᴀᴛʜᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴄᴜᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡʟᴀɴᴅꜱ. ﹚ indeterminate.

[tenebriiis-archived]

“Fire burned in her heart, and her wounded soul spread out, casting a shadow like wings across her country...” 

𝓐𝓷𝓭 𝓘 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓮𝓷 — 𝐵𝑜𝑜𝓀 𝒬𝓊𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝑅𝒫 𝑀𝑒𝓂𝑒

{ ⟡ } — It had become an equally pleasing yet nostalgic habit... { Awaiting } with a weighted heart & memories swirling around her just as her ever-adored ghostly butterflies would, dancing & fluttering wherever her blossoms would conquer. Tonight was not different: At her favorite balcony; on a beloved manor, looking upon the vastness of the Empire & its beauteous cacophony, taking in the whispers & voices regardless of distance; … an orchestra so dearly different from what was still alive in the depths of her wounded soul — & yet it was gratifying to succumb to it; below the gaze of the stars; & the cold autumn breeze biting her porcelain skin…

For the Immortal with their diffused perceptions of time, the routine was not bothersome at all & sometimes details would bloom around with as much ease as breathing… —& create the Illusions of familiar voices & silhouettes sometimes would be a pastime in the solitude of this private place. Bittersweet; & yet enchanting, for that was all that would remain when all was said & done, it was the fear of forgetting, losing…

She could replicate voices; sometimes simply allowing her ears to be graced by words & sentences as a perfect script if she managed to concentrate enough while closing her eyes to the scenery. Living in her imagination, like in her youth… who she was before all that had dragged her to this present in the shape of faux beauty hiding a monstrous truth… —but it was a conscious effort…

Her heart skipped a bit at the words, spilling like written ink of old days… Few could even take her by surprise, & she made no effort into denying that victory by concealing the provoked & sincere gasp. How uncanny of someone so confident to be briefly fearful of facing behind her; perhaps afraid to discover her own abilities were fooling her too & creating a wishful mirage.

“This was hers; not because engulfed by centuries of wars nor steel & iron firmly held on trembling hands But because the Land itself had claimed her as its own; To keep a secret entangling delicately below the darkness of wings —a glowing spark reflecting hope, among the burned foliage.

...a treasure, perhaps, if an ebony bird would choose to come back”

She took the liberty to complete his words; as if to give time to her emotions to recompose & taking a deep breath, before a low & velvety chuckle would escape her.

“Poetry… ever a flame to keep my soul ablaze even at the coldest of Nights. There was a favorite poet of mine, a patrician expressing so much with just ink as his weapon of choice. Sometimes when I heard as he created, it made me feel I had wings once more~ … Truly talented.” Turning around with graceful serenity, golden gaze would seek for him across the candlelit stance beyond the doors of the balcony. Wishing to detail his features with endearment & astonishment, an ancient habit of hers: the eternal desire for new traces to memorize, for new lines of the story to fulfill questions— & yet perhaps it was a lovely lie to herself to cover her inner concerns when he wouldn’t be near to be found… as if nature itself had brushed the trails & hints away.

“Do tell me; Darling…” —& even there, a smile would betray her, curling her nightshade tiers into a concoction of relief & anticipation, stepping forward just enough to be at the frame of tinted-glass doors; her silhouette against the moonlight:

“Is the Poet willing to proceed, writing his own verses, on this story?”

{ @vixtionary ♥ }

#;; ic #vixtionary #;; { heeeello there~ welcome back to my endless ramblings; dear UwU ♥ }

[saviourofzaun]

15 QUESTIONS FOR THE WRITER.

Tagged by: @lullabyes22-blog (Thanks love~!) Tagging: @independentzaun | @vsagis | @misfits-of-zaun | @jinxe | @zcitgcistcr | @crowtongued | @elisethetraveller | @adenial | @bioniczaunites | @perfect-fourth | @vixtionary

1. are you named after anyone? No. My dad merely wanted to be fancy, and give me three names. 2. when was the last time you cried? Last Tuesday after therapy. Just a few tears, mostly choked up. It's a rarity to be honest. 3. do you have kids? No, I am my own child (Seriously, the childishness in me is astronomical). 4. do you use sarcasm a lot? Yeah, too often for my own good. 5. what’s the first thing you notice about people? Their eyes, tone of voice and for some reason teeth. I subconsciously check if they are sincere or not. Don't ask me why. 6. what’s your eye colour? Dark green. 7. scary movies or happy endings? Scary movies all the way! We see happy endings typically in the media. Give me the pain, and the hurt, with no comfort (can you tell I'm a masochist?). 8. any special talents? I used to attend an Institute for Performing Arts, and got my degrees in it as well. I dance for over twenty years now, and professionally for twelve. I kickbox for twenty-two years, but I never fought a match. 9. where were you born? Amsterdam, The Netherlands. 10. what are your hobbies? Reading, writing (obviously), dancing (again, obviously), kickboxing (… Do I have to repeat myself thrice?), swimming, drawing, climbing. 11. have you any pets? Yes, I do! A cat. 12. what sport do you play/have played? Kickboxing, swimming, climbing, acrobatics, dance. 13. how tall are you? Jinx size, aka 5'3” / 160 cm. 14. favourite subject in school? Okay so for the regular system: Biology, Literature, Dutch, English. From the institute: Jazz, modern contemporary, tap, ballet too in a way, acrobatics. 15. dream job? Though question. I back then wanted to become a choreographer, rather than a performer, but due to some traffic accidents and an unhealthy relationship I was in, I fell out of it. I do give dance classes now, and they're going great, but here it is not enough to live off of. I currently study 'Creative Business', mostly focussed onto social media analytics, combined with psychoanalysis. If everything settles a bit, and I get my way, I would like to join a small team of researchers for the European Mental Health department (if this is a possibility). However, I have also considered taking a step towards writing, but I guess you cannot have it all, right?

#》 𝘽𝙐𝙏 𝙄 𝙎𝙏𝙄𝙇𝙇 𝘽𝙀𝙇𝙄𝙀𝙑𝙀 𝙄𝙉 𝙇𝙊𝙔𝘼𝙇𝙏𝙔 ⎯ (𝙨𝙖𝙛𝙚 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨). #》 𝙄’𝙑𝙀 𝙁𝙍𝙀𝙀𝘿 𝙃𝙀𝙍… 𝘾𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙄𝘿𝙇𝙔 ⎯ (𝙤𝙤𝙘).

[mercless]

(( imagine that this was sent anonymously for ominous purposes )) Water drops rhythmically announced the humidity in this part of the caverns. Certain passages were said to flood at times of heavy rain; the result of years upon years of layering over Prime's ancient ruins. Critters dwelling in the darkness of these forsaken paths often sought the comfort of light at those times. Yet, not a single pest had moved that day; the cavernous tunnels felt dead and silent.

The city slept above, save for the incessant bellowing of war forges and the occasional march. Everything else was dealt in murmurs and whispers, under the cover of night. It was a perfect chance to surveil for shady happenings, should one know how to blend into moist walls and burrow into their crevices. A party of hooded figures may have drawn one's attention to a particular opening, outside which they had gathered, seemingly waiting for something.

They had been standing there for a good half hour, now, until a call was whispered; they all wore the same dark, shapeless cloak, covering their faces under its cowl. But when the moon blossomed to its full glory, the flicker of a match breathed life into their forms. A flash of red strands would protrude from the leading one's cover, as they opened the way for the procession. And their descend begun, walking through the gateway into the darkness bellow.

If it wasn't dangerous enough to traverse the underground, the wet season made it a whole other world. A slippery step could lead one down a makeshift waterfall of darkness. It would always drain away in time, though. Into deeper reservoirs, collected for use, or forgotten completely. The trench Talon investigated tonight was abandoned; its descending floor had collected a small murky pool, and multiple holes in the walls at different levels signalled its prior importance in controlling water levels. The attempted seals on most, giving away its deserted state. Ones like these had once been the closest thing the assassin had ever known to a 'lake' for their early years. The dark waters it constantly held worked as a quenching basin for more than just the vermin of the rubble. The collected liquid lapped at the crumbling steps against one wall that went down to the deepest part of the stone well. And perpendicular to it, a series of exits with so much collapsed rubble to every opening it was difficult to tell which were deteriorated from age, and which had been forced. But the runes of old lettering and strange marks gave up some form of significance.

In a higher gutter is where Talon squatted now, gathering the scraps of information they had recorded when the light had been out, noting the higher ones which were bricked up to a certain point, or lead to impossible drops. The dim light of the moon was bright for eyes that had relied on fire light for hours, already. So it had been too easy to be alerted to the figures who gathered below them, now. Hugging their back to the lichen-filled stones, amber eyes watched them curiously. And worriedly when they had been still for such a long time. The orange light is almost alarming in its appearance, and until the cloaked figures had begun to move along their designated path, the assassin worried if they had been spotted. Their relief was paused when they spotted the red strands.

Fingers dug into the moss underhand as denial tried to reason it was the influence of the warm light. But once the final cloak had passed through the channel and the creak of metal signalled its closing, Talon had already decided they were going to follow. They quietly drop to the mouldy cobble soon after, slinking over to the side of the entrance as their fabric-covered face leaned on the grating and waited to no longer hear footsteps or splashes. A paranoid glance is turned to the overcast sky above before they too gently pushed the barred gate open. A knife in one hand was readied instead of their lantern, the other had gloved fingers skim over the walls as they kept close, unsure footing pulling them forward.

#‡ ic #‡ ask #vixtionary #uh i mean oooh who sent thiiis o7 Γo #:) cmon kids its catatomb fun time #Secrets best kept deep within

[perfect-fourth]

Continued from here

@vixtionary @notoriousness

𝄌 Everything had to be perfect.

Not only for the sake of the Grand General's life, but for his own. Their continued existence was only a fraction of why he wanted everything to be set accordingly, though. More important than this, the preservation of his pride was what really drove him to double, triple, quadruple check that every candle was in place, every sigil marked with a single stroke, every bind tightened just enough to sting but still allow circulation to flow.

Bedecked in a well-fit etched satin robe in hues of red black, and gold, a soft humming of an Ionian war song created a haunting echo in the otherwise silent chasm of the Immortal Bastion's bowels, perhaps unnerving the man even further than the situation called for. The deceptively gentle smile he wore on pouty lips was far too content for what was about to take place; leave it to Khada Jhin to find perverse joy in carving the flesh of the man he proclaimed with insistence to love.

That smile was surprisingly not concealed by any sort of mask for this event. He'd chosen to forgo the comfortable camouflage all together, to show off the expertly painted lines on his face(ceremonial makeup), but more importantly, to let the Noxian and his comrade see the light in his expression. He wanted them to know how much he was enjoying this, for once not self-concious about what might be determined from his features, but rather, delighting in the disgust he was certain to bring about in either of their hearts. He wanted them to know how much he took pleasure in this.

His humming ceased the second Jericho spat a command at him to quiet down, but his smirk didn't falter. He was in his own sort of trance-- he'd made certain to clear his mind and his body of any distractions the second he'd risen that day, hours spent forcing himself into such a pristine and relaxed state that there was almost nothing that could rattle his senses in that moment, not even that ever present feeling of being observed. A simple, soft tilt of his head was all he gave him in an acknowledgement of his complaints. He would have typically delighted in shooting back a witty retort, commenting on how he hadn't hadn't cut into his flesh yet and he was already whining-- his silence was more unnerving than any sass could have been.

One gloved hand gave the binding round the Grand General's wrist a single additional tug, just to emphasize who was in control here-- it would soon make its way up to give his cheek a loving stroke. He parted ways with the man after this to go do as he'd been told, gliding like a specter towards each sturdy burner with a candle in hand to ignite them in order, inhaling deeply the scent he would later come to associate with this ordeal.

Once properly burning, he'd make his way over to the nearby ornamental table; which held on it a tincture of herbs and medicines that he'd already taken the liberty of mixing, sat beside a dagger. It was the same blade he'd offered the man not long ago to mark him with, freshly whet and brought to an impossibly sharp edge. The knife was touched momentarily in a wistful display of unnecessary dramatization before he'd make use of the tincture; pouring a chalice full and carrying it to the man who sat so helplessly before him. The concoction was carefully brought to his lips.

"Open your mouth." A demand nobody ever wanted to hear from the likes of the Golden Demon.

#ic #noxus #tw black magic #tw impending gore #long post

[noxianwilled]

His claws were firm on the balcony rail, framing the Bastion's crenellation. A clouded sky set the scene, with threats of a storm brewing from the North; and so the Grand General's pet had perched quietly on his pauldron, feathers ruffled by an unseen breeze. His guards, a couple of unadorned legionnaires, stood on the other side of the door, leaving him as easy a target as any. When expecting the company of an assassin, it was a show of good manners to ensure the privacy of shadows, after all.

"So, the rumors are true. I will be sure to send our condolences." He begun solemnly, a comment seemingly directed at nobody but the bellowing sky. There was, however, a second glass set on the table behind him, awaiting the fill of sweet Ionian red. How exactly he knew to expect her arrival, would be left untold. But in his pensive glare at the restless capital below, one could almost suspect a hint of trepidation at the questioning that was to come.

always accepting ic asks ♡

— @vixtionary

It would be so easy to kill him.

The guards are too distant to reach the Grand General before her blade is at his throat, and two of them alone would hardly be enough to stop her regardless. Katarina could think of myriad ways she could sneak on him unnoticed until steel drew blood, and a variety more escape routes through which none would know she had been there at all. If he had sent her to die, that would have been a merciful end; if he had not, she found few things made men as cooperative and forthcoming with the truth as their prospective deaths.

And yet, as she watches from the shadows, Katarina knows it is purposeful. Rather than protect himself against the obvious threat, he invited her in as a guest. Isn't it a familiar welcome? She had known him since childhood, an extension of her own family; though that is the curse in itself, perhaps. Family had only ever betrayed or abandoned her — in this light, his deeds were but a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled.

It could be a trap, even if she had been careful enough to check the perimeter before approaching at all. In her state — one of her favorite daggers broken, too few knives left for comfort, bruises and injuries she hadn't yet healed of after her fall — perhaps Swain himself could take her down; he is a veteran, not a frail old man. Jarvan III had gone without a fight, yet a noxian like the Grand General would scarcely meet such a meek end.

The storm is as if come with her, as Katarina drops down from the roof without a sound. Fury blazes within her chest, shines like wildfire in green eyes, the feeling uncomfortably familiar as she stands before a man who wanted her dead.

Yet father had made his sentence obvious in the weapon of choice, at the very least. There were no second chances under Marcus Du Couteau, not even for those of his own blood. Swain had been the one to give her another chance, to allow her to stand again by herself after the failure, to prove she was better than that. To say she believed his leadership would have been understatement; it was more than that. It was personal. And that's a mistake all her own, really, when she should know better by now than to allow her feelings to interfere.

But she could never cut her heart out as easily as she would make another stop breathing.

Part of her rage is purely dedicated to the betrayal: that he set her up to fail, that he believed she would, that he counted on it. Revealed presence, nonetheless, shows there is more to it. It infuriates her that there are pieces still missing from the puzzle, and death alone would not give her the answers she sought. She wanted to hear from him the reason why. She wanted to be wrong, though all evidence stained his hands with blood.

Katarina sits at the table nonchalantly, leaning against the back of the chair; one of her smaller knives in hand, she plays with idly, eyes never leaving the General's back. Why is too obvious an opener. She will not go straight for the throat, not yet. "Not the result you expected?"

"A bit late to regret it now — for dear old Jarvan most of all." There is no concealing the wounded undertone of her words, no amount of thundering anger enough to mask it entirely. "But then again, it isn't quite regret if you never meant for the job to be done. You wanted me to fail. I would know why — and I think you should choose your words carefully because what comes next depends entirely on what you say."

#vixtionary #» in character — ⌜the sinister blade.⌟ #🥹 #she's this close 🤏 to not holding back anything from how angry she is #this is kat still making the effort to be civil because. there is something there. she wants to hear what he'll say #(and sure maybe personal attachment is to blame for it in part because deep down she still wants to believe in him) #but noxus is the most important thing. and she needs to know everything to ensure it can be protected

[matrilinear]

@vixtionary started following you.

She rolled her eyes, genteel pretence momentarily forgotten. She could fill entire shelves with the string of curses she's leveled at him over the years, perhaps a library. She stopped toasting some years back after raising her glass to his rotting corpse and seeing her wish unfulfilled time and again.

"A peerless honor. I can only do the same," she strained a smile, fingers squeezing around the silver-embossed glass with just a tad too much force as to make the fabric of her gloves complain.

"Although," rasped Soreana, "I have to ask, why me? It's true we haven't seen each other for a while, and I do so apologize for that, but I'm sure you've better things to do than entertain me."

She shrugged, accepting her predicament. "How do you fare, Jericho? I hear you've gone through rather turbulent times. It's good to see you looking so sprightly though. Is it not our nature to bounce back stronger than before?"

Soreana took a long, self-satisfied sip, and gestured him up and down.

"Truly, you don't look a day over sixty."

#vixtionary #》. ic #soreana vc is just an unbroken string of 'i hope you drop dead' #drinking tw

[shehili]

For @vixtionary. Continued from here.

They were sat in the embassy's lounging area, consisting of a handful of seating furniture encircling a small table presently laden with refreshments.

The ceiling was high, the northernmost wall, which would reflect less sunlight throughout the day, occupied by scroll bookcases of dark palmwood with lozenge-shaped shelves for effective storing.

A mural had been painted on the wall opposite depicting a typical Tereshan vista populated by characters with dark-lined eyes pointed in the same direction. On the horizon stood two people, one in Noxian armor, the other wearing sumptuous colorful robes. Heads bowed in agreement, Noxian side brandishing a scroll as a blood-red sun haloed around them. 'The Empire Welcomes Tereshni' informed a plaque written in both languages.

Mariam watched him intently, every move, down to his very blinking, as a hawk might watch fish wiggling in shallow waters. His face had already begun to bloom carnation pink, and it wasn't entirely the fault of sunburn. For her part, she was pleasantly dangling from the precipice, keeping her wits about her but enjoying the way it frayed at her edges regardless.

A glittering half-moon smile fanned across her face.

"So, I was right. You can say it. I like when you say that."

She chuckled darkly, plucking a piece of fruit off of the platter sat between them and motioning for him to wait as she mulled over his confession. A moment later, as she was dabbing juice off of the corner of her lip, she gave her reply.

"Thank you for your honesty. I'm pleased with my younger self for standing by her decision. Especially under pressure from someone older and more persuasive. I stand by it still, even if I do wonder sometimes where I'd be in life if I'd chosen differently."

She made as if to continue, cup suspended in mid-air, and fastened her mouth to its fragrant lip instead. There were things she wasn't yet comfortable sharing. The wine, Jericho's choice, wallowed bitterly on the floor of her mouth.

"Seeing you to battle knowing I cannot join you would have been difficult. I would've lost my form, too, between the child-bearing and the lack of exercise. Now that's a tragedy."

Mariam reached across to squeeze Jericho's arm, leaning in and softening her voice to a whisper as if she were about to impart a secret.

"Speaking of, do you remember Kamose? Big fellow, misshapen head, a bit daft but very friendly. Skilled warrior too. Hated the feel of armor so he'd march in just his smallclothes. He died last year, right in front of his children. Wanted to teach them to swim, didn't account for his size nor the shallowness of the water. Landed hard on his head, died on the spot."

Mariam filled her half-full cup, the unfeeling side of her mouth twitching involuntarily. She allowed for a comfortable silence to stretch between them at the sombering news, inclining the bottle towards him in silent question.

"One more, then it's your turn to ask your bloody questions."

Bottle came down with a louder clang than she meant to. She narrowed her eyes at him, clearing her throat as one does before launching a challenge.

"Why did it take fifteen years and an earth-shaking discovery to bring you to this table? If you claim unavailability, I'll get you in your bad leg," Mariam bounced her foot for emphasis. "Remember: honesty. If you may give me this rare privilege again."

#/ ic #vixtionary #just two friends enjoying a drinking game nothing to see here

[nameaprice]

❓ - pov you work as a double agent hunting relics for the Rose and then spilling the beans to this man :/

Simple shipping meme. / @vixtionary

aka acquaintanceship out of necessity or having your life threatened convenience. sounds good! also a sprinkle of antagonising and sivir actually being a triple agent, because: self-gain.

#|| inbox replies #vixtionary #|| ooc