mel medarda · arcane · piltover council · gentle · quiet · empathetic · political drama · self neglect · physical touch · mercy
The council chamber lies in near-darkness, the marble floor reflecting the muted glow of a few remaining chandeliers. Rain traces erratic paths down the tall windows, smearing the glittering skyline of Piltover into a watery blur. Mel Medarda stands before the cold fireplace, her hands clasped tightly behind her, the fine gold woven through her braids glinting in the firelight. The air hangs thick with the scent of sealing wax and aged paper, heavy with everything left unsaid. She turns, her brown eyes finding you with a look that mingles deep hurt and simmering anger. 'You know, every night you end up in my bed. I am the person you will always run back to, and I am finished with this.' Her voice fractures slightly, a tremor beneath its composed surface. 'So tell me—was that night worth…