(no subject)

➥ The Devil's in Runeterra: A V. Dumb AU

Terms / Definitions:

➥ Kardinalzahl: Greed's species. Pseudo humans that take a long time to age once they mature. They're more in touch with arcane magic, even if that has faded a bit over time. They can regenerate, but only mild wounds (nothing that could kill them in one shot), and even that takes a lot of energy and time. Usually leaving them prone, unconscious, or with little to no choice but to sleep for about 12+ hours.

They always have purple or red eyes, cat slit, that do that weird predatory reflection thing in the dark. Additionally, all Kardinalzahls have claws on their hands and feet, as well as black patches on their skin (similar, again, to a calico cat), and too-sharp teeth. Greed's patterns are specifically on his hands, his feet, and his chest.

They've become more and more rare as time has gone on. The further they've distanced themselves from magic, the more sterile the species has become. And with the world moving towards technology and industry as the forefront, most of them that are left can't reproduce. In exchange, they can live longer lives than their predecessors. The oldest that's known to have existed was around 350 years old.

➥ Cult of the Unending Serpent: Where Greed spent the first few years of his life. The ouroboros tattoo on his hand was their symbol.

➥ Country of Am'Es: A small, landlocked country that fell around 10 years ago after it was plunged into civil war that eventually basically wiped the whole population out through chemical warfare and famine. Relics are currently sought after by wealthy collectors.

➥ The Devil's Nest: A small bar, tucked somewhere in Zaun. Finding the location is nearly impossible unless you find one of the matchboxes. Strike it one of the matches inside, and it'll show a map, glowing on the back.

➥ Greed: Never gives his name, hardly shows his face. Smuggler in the underworld of it all. He'll deal with almost everyone, but he never gives his name. Always hides his face (mostly his eyes), and rarely makes house calls. Goods are just dropped off at whatever location's been agreed upon. He set Finn's shipment on fire once because the man made a stupid comment, and Greed decided the shit-heel needed a lesson.

The language sounds like an odd mix of German and Eastern European, and historians are eager to gather any written text they can to preserve the language. Not a lot of people speak it.

I am not proofing this. We die like horrible creatures 'round these parts. ~~Ok, I lied, I mildly proofed this~~

➥ Champagne Flutes Dance Lies on Your Tongue: Piltover, Private Party

He couldn't help himself, really. The opportunity was there, ripe and waiting for the taking. Someone (the head of the house, most likely, so pompous and ready to show how far his wealth extended) snapped his fingers, calling on anyone in the crowd to show them something they've never seen before. A couple tentatively tried; their own egos on the line, wanting to impress and put a face to their name. But they'd been predictable displays. Languages the people of Runeterra already had a solid grasp on, spoken to the rhythm of poems. A recite of a play by memory everyone in the crowd had already seen a live performance of at least once in their lifetime. Typical. Typical and boring, and not anything that received more than the polite applause expected from rich-blood company.

So, when there was a pause, he'd stepped in, setting whatever was left of his champagne on the nearest, silver platter. Not even an announcement. Just a couple of gold coins (more than he should have given) passed to the live band, and a demand on the tip of his tongue:

"Toccata in D. Ah, but leave most of it to your guitarist, would you?"

The dance came naturally, after that: a couple claps of his heels to turn heads. A slap of his toe to bring the rest of them to focus. He didn't need a partner, though it would have been better if he had. Someone to meet him, beat for beat, as he pounded the gold-copper of his boots along the marble, striking it hard enough to draw up more than a couple of sparks.

Eventually, a circle had formed, and he had been left to do as he was wont to do; the long, gold-beaded tails of his black suit, chasing after his legs to the tune of a matador, beckoning a bull. If remembering names was the play of the game, he'd make sure they knew his: Dominic Razzka. A merchant to topside, but something very different down below.

He hadn't bothered staying for the applause. Truth knew, it was all fake anyway. Instead, he'd slipped through the crowd as the next round of hors d'oeuvres came bustling out of a kitchen full of staff that were both overworked and underpaid. He needed to get out. Get out, catch some air, and loosen the stupid, silk tie that felt more like a noose around the dip of his throat.

Greed slinks out onto one of the stone balconies, gloved hand already undoing the knot at his collar, as his free hand searches through the myriad of pockets for his pipe. Smoking indoors isn't against the rules, but it's usually frowned upon. Besides, he did, really, need the air.

"Herr Razzka?" Someone behind him, calling over his shoulder, and Greed grunts in mild frustration. "You left in such a hurry, I didn't get a chance to introduce myself."

He can hear the man, casually strolling to close the gap. Piltover and their fucking pomp and circumstance. "Mn. Needed to get a little air, is all. Nothing personal, friend."

"None taken," is the answer he gets and as Greed tips his head, he can make out a shape at the corner of his shades. Thin, frail. Pale and dressed with enough rocks to make a king green with envy. The blue of his suit is tailored to specifically fit his body, and the peacock feather sticking out of his pocket is telling: this man, however he is, comes from money. Big money. Either a House name, or in the employ of enough of them that he has little to worry when it comes to checking his books.

Greed finds his pipe (an ornate thing, older than he is), and he sets it between his teeth.

Dealing with Topside always tends to put him in a mood.

"I hope I got that right. It is Herr where you come from, is it not?" The man gets into his space, humming as if he's the most intelligent person this side of Runeterra. "You don't often hear of refugees from Am'Es coming all the way out here. You've been quite the talk since your spectacle." Greed watches him, his leather-snug fingers, hovering about the belly of his pipe. "I imagine you have quite the goods on you, as well. Or, at the very least, ways of securing rarities many a fine men and women would be keen on having as part of their - " The man pauses, letting his eyes run up and down Greed that leaves little to the imagination on what he's thinking. " - personal collection."

Greed snorts, gruff, and his thumb flips open the small plate of silver, slapping over the bowl of his pipe like a vent. "Personal collection, huh? Don't know, druh. Might end up being a higher price than most can afford."

"Let me speak plain, then." The man grabs him (grabs him), yanking him by the label, and Greed's teeth clap violently against the mouth of his pipe. "I would like to arrange - "

But the man is looking, looking too hard, and he realizes his sunglasses have slipped down his nose.

Shit.

The Piltovian stammers, slack-jawed and awed. Of course, he saw it. How could he not? It's the very reason he wears the sunglasses at all. And the reason he hides his face more often than not, especially when dealing in situations that aren't completely tipped in his favor.

"You're a Kardinalzahl," the man's excitement is sick. Sick in a way that he knows, sick in the way his name is usually defined by simple and educated alike. It's avarice in its worst shape and form.

The man grips tighter, fueled by his own fire, and Greed grinds his jaw. "Oh, the coin people would pay to get a look at you. The grants the colleges would give, just to have a day with you. We could be rich men, you and I." He lets go, and Greed's hand grows tight at his side. The man pulls out a book (a small, leather thing) as he yanks at the feather tucked into his jacket, producing the most gaudy, godawful looking pen imaginable.

"How much?" He asks, and Greed's eyebrows shoot high into his forehead. "You wanna run that by me one more time?" Because he must not have heard that right.

But the man repeats, flourishing out a note with a proud purse of his lips. "To purchase you. To have you on my retainer. How much? I will reward you handsomely, of course. For all future prospects and endeavor-"

He doesn't get to finish his proposal. Not before Greed's on him, heels as fast as bullets, and his sunglasses barely have the time to hit the stone balcony before he has the man shoved over the rails; the grip of his fingers at his looped scarf, the only thing keeping him from falling ten stories down.

The man yelps, and Greed quiets him by shoving his face inches from his nose. "Oh, ho, ho. You Topsiders really are fucking full of it, aren't you." A couple, loose stones skitter out, showing the man how far the plunge could be. "Sorry, Backpfeifengesicht, but I'm not for sale. Not to you, not to anyone." He lets his hold go lax. A hair, giving the man a feel of gravity.

There's panic in the man's face. Raw panic, and oh, does he eat it up. Piltover couldn't see a foot under their own nose at the best of times. Not until it bit them, sinking teeth and poison into a wound that no amount of money, wealth, or standing could cure.

Greed yanks the man back, letting him choke on his own spit. "And don't bother with the threat I know you've got coming. I already know who you are. Kinda gave it away with that book you've got there," he starts, finding his pipe again with his mouth. "-would be a real shame if the papers found out you get your dick soaked in Shimmer three times a week, while you use client coin to pay for it." Greed rolls his boot out on his heel. "How far deep are you in now? A quarter of a mil? Half?" He leers, vulture-like, and the glint of his teeth finally shows off all their deadly points.

"One word, one word to anyone, I'll take that whole business of yours and burn it to the fucking ground." He brushes the man's shoulder off before gripping his arm with enough force that something all-too-clearly cracks. "Or should I pay a visit to your wife and let her know why she suddenly can't afford all those nice little things you get her, so she won't ask where you go at night?"

The Topsider's expression is a ghost. All the blood has drained from his face, his bright-blue eyes are white in their sockets. He tries to find the words. However, Greed quickly places one finger to his lips; the grin on his face, a tiger's maw in teeth. "If you're gunna try to plead your case, don't bother. You won't even make it to your door before I turn your whole life upside down. Better to enjoy the party, hmn?" Greed pries open his fingers, and the scuffs and dents in the man's coat stay where they are. "Go on, Herr. Better get a move on now before I change my mind."

The man's gone soon after; the pace to him as fleeing as a mouse. Greed grunts and as he bends over to pick up his sunglasses, he examines them by flipping them in his hand. One of the lenses is cracked, and part of the frame is bent enough that he'll need to take them to someone professional. A pain, but not a deal breaker.

"Ehhh," he places them back over his face, patting his double-button vest for a light. When he finds it, he flips it out, spinning its wheel. Once, nothing. Twice, nothing. A third time, and the groan that comes crawling out of him is exasperated. Exasperated, tired, and at the end of his rope.

Maybe, he'll just avoid Piltover from now on.