Arcane: Painted Tapestries

The man stared at Promenade - the abandoned surface level of Zaun, his masked face completely expressionless.

Two enforcers sporting full body armour faced the lonely city that hid the underground metropolis below; both of them stood guard at the entrance to one of the few bridges that connected the twin cities.

Without wasting another breath, the man sprang into action, leaping down from the towering rooftop and landing gracefully on the pavement below.

He sprinted through the dwindling shadows, his mind ablaze as he worked to recall his usual route down into the Undercity. 

Whether it would still apply in this time period was a different story; perhaps the winding mass of pipes and supports connecting the twin cities would no longer be there, or more accurately, had not been built yet.

As the man approached the bridge, he became acutely aware of how much further he had before the sound of his darting footsteps reached the Enforcers.

The helmets they wore may have dimmed their sense of hearing a tad, but not nearly enough to allow him to slip past unnoticed. 

Not without a distraction at least.

Time to improvise - he mused to himself.

It was time to take a risk, one that he would rather avoid. 

He mulled over the potential consequences of his current course of action, deciding that nothing big could possibly come of it. Two uneducated witnesses could never understand the gravity of what he was about to reveal.

As he ran towards the bridge, the man reached inside of the leather jacket he wore underneath his oversized cloak and pulled out a small, crudely painted hunk of metal.

His armoured index finger slotted through a poorly made safety pin, grasping the rest of the makeshift grenade with his palm.

One of the Enforcers stiffened up and began turning around, finally hearing the masked figure's speedy approach.

In response to this, the cloaked figure lifted his index finger away from the grenade, pulling the pin and lobbing the explosive past the man and into the cold air beside the bridge with a practiced accuracy.

Mere half-seconds after confirming his aim was true, the man darted into some of the deeper shadows that were lining the street, pressing himself up against the painted stone walls in an attempt to hide from the Enforcer's scanning gaze.

The teeth of the grenade chattered loudly in a deathly countdown; the uneven, jagged shards of metal lining the thing clamping together with a force that could have surely severed his outstretched fingers had he waited to throw the explosive not even a second later.

One.

As it soared over the Enforcers heads and past the bridge, the man stalled with bated breath. 

His Lady's inventions were incredibly effective it was true, especially for being crafted out of scrap.

It didn't make them any less temperamental than the material they were made out of however, and there was always that slim chance they never went off.

The designs she had passed onto him were faulty at best, hoping to nurture his own ingenuity by spotting and solving the problems she had left behind.

Two.

He hoped this wasn't one of those few times.

Three.

The grenade exploded, a thick blue smoke billowing outwards in all directions.

The Enforcer who hadn't turned around cried in alarm and surprise, alerting his suspicious colleague to the gigantic smokescreen that had seemingly appeared out of thin air.

The Enforcer turned back around and ran to join his friend at the bridge's railing, both of them staring in confusion at the heavy cloud of blue smoke that had already started to sink downwards into the river below.

The cloaked figure sprinted forward from his hiding place, making a beeline for the now unguarded bridge. His heavy boots clinked quietly on the stony ground as he vaulted the metal barrier that separated Piltover from Promenade.

A few more seconds and he would be where he needed to be.

The man passed by the duo, hearing a snippet of their uselessly incompetent conversation before leaving them behind to stare in wonder at the distraction he had created.

He reached the sixth support beam that held the bridge up above the murky water, leaping onto the flimsy railing which creaked in protest under his unexpectedly heavy weight.

The man took one look at what lay below before launching himself off the bridge's edge and flying towards a large sinkhole that lay in parallel with the river. *

As he fell into the abyss, the man gazed down into the lower levels of the Undercity that resided far below him.

The odd network of piping and scrappy buildings were illuminated by an earthly green glow, courtesy of the naturally glowing fungi that his people had taken advantage of to light their streets and homes.

He could have righted himself on any of the supports he passed by, however choosing not to - his final destination would be the same no matter the speed of his descent. It would only slow him down.

Such a fall could not even hope to harm him. Not anymore.

The man's cloak billowed outwards in the opposing wind, revealing a worn-down set of mechanical legs, which were painted a dark black with thin streaks of red that trailed down its surface. 

The metal contraptions hissed, readying themselves against the oncoming air resistance to slam down onto the hard earth beneath him when he eventually reached the ground.

He soared downwards, blitzing past the Promenade level of the undercity at a suicidal velocity, ignoring the topmost sector entirely.

His destination was Entresol, the beating heart of Zaun which was located much further down into the abyss.

Every future ally he would need to accomplish their dream was located here, lest for one man - maybe even the most important person of them all.

That man resided in a place that was far deeper than Entresol.

The ground caught up to him, the inner layer of his armour brimming with a blue energy that arced dangerously between each carefully placed node. 

The earth beneath him morphed into a molten slop upon making contact with the soles of his boots, droplets of hot slag splattering upwards and causing more than a few holes in his large cloak.

How unfortunate.

His knees did not even buckle under the sheer pressure opposing them, and despite falling more than a few hundred metres; the strange armour fully shielded his lower half, protecting him from any kind of damage that he should have sustained.

The noise of his arrival echoed loudly across the surrounding area.

This place wasn't abandoned anymore.

Yells of confusion followed by more than a few colourful threats emanated from his right, most if not all of the complaints being at the noise he had made with his heavy landing.

The man winced, a soft-footed approach might have been more of an apt choice.

He straightened up, the draped hood he wore sliding back to reveal a hint of short, dark blue hair that fell forwards over his mask, now unrestrained. The man quickly reached up and pulled it forward once more, tucking the thick strand of hair back into the confines of his shadowed hood.

The cloaked figure started to trudge through the back alleys, glancing once at the deep web of cracks and cooling lava he had left behind with his unintentionally dramatic entrance.

He passed by many a makeshift house and poorly made shelter on his way forward; the primitive constructs the residents had managed to cobble together looking even more pathetic than usual; especially when compared to the Piltovian street he had been standing on mere minutes before.

A memory flashed over his vision, its recollection triggered by the area surrounding him. 

He remembered this place, this exact street. 

The stony ruins in his memory were stained a sickly yellow, with dozens of fresh corpses lining both sides of the street. Blackened blood dropped from every orifice of every body.

It was a living nightmare. His living nightmare.

It would not happen again.

The man's violet eyes flashed maliciously under his dark hood before fading to a dull, unmoving pink.

His resolve burned brighter, rekindling in full force after dwindling at the shock of seeing his city still standing.

He would alter the horrific future that would come to pass.

His very existence was proof of their progress, their fighting chance at redemption. 

He would make sure that they won this time, so that his comrade's sacrifices were not in vain. 

By any cost.

The council of Piltover would fall, along with every single member of that accursed house named Kiramman before it was too late.

The man was pulled from his brooding as a few of the more rowdy underdwellers exited their houses and gathered together to form a small crowd in front of him.

Every single one of them was substantially bigger than him, not that it mattered.

Six men and one woman, all undeserving of the fates he would dish out if they attempted to attack him. The stranger had no misconceptions about what was coming if a group of people living in the outskirts ganged up on you; he grew up in these very slums after all.

He readied the first two fingers on each hand under his large cloak, preparing to strike the first man who dared attack him.

He would not need his armament to deal with these men.

"The fuck was all that noise about huh?" One of the taller men spoke, pointing a finger at him accusingly. "No wait, who are you? I haven't seen you around here before."

His aggressor stepped towards him threateningly and slung his muscled arm around his shoulder.

"A topsider perhaps?" The man spat angrily, leering down at the cloaked figure before him.

The masked man did not move to oppose this invasion of his personal space, instead opting for a far less violent response than what he would normally have chosen to do.

His head turned slowly toward the thug's, which was now barely a few inches away from his own.

The unpleasant man was still leering spitefully down at him, how unsightly.

The thug recoiled, unclasping his arm from around the stranger's neck, thoroughly spooked by the smaller man's shining, violet-coloured eyes.

It was the colour of rage, born of a deranged madness that would never fully settle.

The stranger opened his mouth to speak, his voice full of an unbridled, unrestrained malevolence. "I am no topsider." He said slowly, every word carrying an obvious, deep-rooted hatred for anyone within range to hear.

And hear they did.

Most of the gathered mob flinched away from the stranger, so disturbed were they by the newcomer's murderous rage and his glowing eyes, that it translated into a fear so primal the only natural reaction they had left was to back away in terror.

"R-right, and the noise?" Said the man closest, removing his arm and pushing past the creeping fear he felt when facing the now looming threat in front of him.

The stranger didn't seem so small anymore.

It was a shoddy attempt to save face in front of his group, a foolish decision that would have cost him his life had the situation been any different.

"Me." The stranger said, his piercing gaze daring the thug to challenge him, to find out what would happen if he were pushed too far.

"I s-see, well on your way then." The man mumbled, averting his trembling eyes from the stranger's predatory stare.

He motioned the man forward, stumbling aside and quickly gesturing at his group to move out of the way as well.

They didn't need telling twice.

The stranger paused, giving every single individual before him a final, penetrating glare before striding forward and breaking the encirclement.

As he walked past them, he heard the man converge with his group once more, hearing the quiet whisper of: "Fuckin' monster." Before turning the corner of the street and leaving the group behind.

—

* I changed the layout of Promenade (The topmost level of the undercity) a little bit. It's practically the same, with both cities still on opposite sides of the great river, however there are now large sinkholes across the surface of Promenade (The topmost level of the undercity), which lead downwards into the lower levels. I thought this was a bit more realistic considering the lore behind why Zaun and Piltover were separated.

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(Total word count: 2083)