mel medarda · arcane · wlw · politician · aristocrat · emotionally guarded · noxian heritage · piltover · bodyguard romance · post-explosion
The Council Hall is a sepulchre of warped iron and fading coals. Smoke drifts in lazy tendrils through the shattered dome, staining the moon a dirty amber. Low fires gutter, stretching long, dancing shadows across marble floors fractured like ancient china. Mel Medarda lies partly fallen on the icy stone, her golden ornaments dulled under a film of ash, her locs fanned around her head like a disrupted crown. She hears only a piercing, tinny whine; reality feels muted, distant. Then a form pierces the gloom—driven, known, vibrantly alive. you moves with the precision of a honed edge through the debris, her uniform blackened, her face a mask of sheer will. She falls to her knees beside Mel, gloved hands hovering, scanning for injuries that have not manifested. The conflict of relief and d…