Morgana's POV
The square before us was a spectacle of movement and sound, a symphony of progress. Inventors, with goggles on their foreheads and grease stains on their elegant clothes, proudly displayed their creations: small automatons with spider-like legs serving steaming cups of tea, clockwork birds that sang complex melodies, a device that polished boots with hypnotic efficiency. Street artists used steam-powered brushes to paint murals on giant canvases, the vibrant colours shifting subtly as the sunlight moved. There was an optimism in the air, a fervent belief in the future, in the next invention, in the next leap towards perfection. It was loud, bright, and utterly overwhelming.
"Right," Azra'il said, her small voice cutting through the ambient noise with impressive clarity. She already had a map of the city open, seemingly immune to the sensory overload. "First order of business: a roof, preferably one that doesn't leak. Temporary lodgings. An inn. Then, once we've established a low profile, we find a more 'permanent' home. Any preferences, or is the 'anywhere that serves a good tea and doesn't ask too many questions' standard in effect?"
"Just somewhere… quiet," I said, instinctively adjusting my dark robes. Amidst all the metallic gleam and bright colours of Piltovan fashion, I suddenly felt like a crow in a flock of parrots.
Azra'il unfolded the map with a flourish. "Well, if we wanted to be predictable, we'd go to the Merchants' District," she said, pointing with her finger. "That's where most of the inns are, which means more people, more noise, and, conveniently, it's near the central archives in case I want to read the unauthorised biography of some overrated inventor. And," she added with a glint in her eye, "it has excellent escape routes to the piers, in case we need to make a dramatic and unplanned exit."
The logic was sound, but as I looked in that direction, at the tall, shadowed towers of the great clans, I felt a coldness. An aura of arrogance and unhappiness. It was like Noxus, only with better clothes and fewer murders in broad daylight. My intuition recoiled. I looked in the opposite direction, where the buildings seemed smaller, older, and the sound was less of Hextech whirring and more of hammers and saws.
"What about over there?" I asked, pointing. "What's in that mess?"
She looked where I pointed and grimaced. "The Artisans' Quarter," she said, the name sounding like a disease. "Dreadful. The streets are a labyrinth, a nightmare to navigate in a chase. Far from any useful source of information. Likely full of starving artists and depressed poets. Logistically, it's a dead end."
"Let's go there," I said.
She stared at me, genuinely perplexed. "Why? Based on what? What is your tactical justification for choosing the worst location on the map?"
I hesitated, trying to find a logical way to explain a feeling. "I have a… sense about it," I admitted. "It feels more… alive. Less… watched."
She sighed, a long, suffering sound, the sound of a genius being forced to deal with irrational occultism. "Fine. We'll test your 'mystical-vibe-based hypothesis'. But if we end up getting robbed and having to hide in a tasteless art gallery, I want it on the record that I said so."
Despite her complaints, she followed me. The path to the Artisans' Quarter was a gradual transition from polished perfection to messy creativity. The pristine pavements gave way to more worn stones, speckled with paint stains and metal shavings. The air, once perfumed with the ozone of Hextech crystals, now carried the smells of hot solder, machine oil, wood varnish, and the stimulating aroma of strong coffee from small shops. The sound was no longer the harmonious ticking of the city centre, but a cacophony of work: the hiss of steam, the whir of experimental prototypes, the clang of hammers, and the rasp of saws.
And, as I suspected, I instantly felt more at home. There was an honesty to the grime and the noise here, a palpable passion that was absent from the cold efficiency of the richer districts.
"Look," I said, pausing for a moment to watch a craftsman working on a huge metal bird in front of his workshop. The wings were a complex lattice of gears and pistons, and he was carefully adjusting a joint with a spanner. "They build with their hands."
"Yes, and it takes them three weeks to make something a factory automaton would do in two hours," Azra'il retorted, though I saw her analysing the wing's mechanism with a technical interest she was trying to hide.
It was in the heart of this district that we found it: 'The Bronze Griffin', a charming and clearly ancient inn, sandwiched between a glassblower's workshop and a shop that sold clocks with impossibly complex faces. A rusted automaton in the shape of a griffin hung above the door, screeching softly with every gust of wind, a sentinel of time that had refused to be replaced by modernity.
"It looks… rustic," Azra'il commented, which in her language meant 'old, inefficient, and likely infested'.
"It looks perfect," I said, and gently nudged her inside.
The common room was cosy, the polar opposite of our sterile home in Noxus. It was filled with dark wooden tables scratched by use, worn leather armchairs, and the homely smell of mutton stew and dark ale. In one corner, a small, makeshift stage stood empty, but it was easy to imagine musicians and storytellers performing there at night. And behind the massive bar, polishing a glass with a cloth, was the proprietor.
A Yordle. He was elderly, with a tuft of white hair that defied gravity and a magnificent moustache that curled at the tips with scented wax. His leather waistcoat was covered in brass and bronze medals of clearly questionable origin, including one that looked suspiciously like a prize from a pie-baking contest.
"Ah, travellers!" he said, his voice bombastic and surprisingly deep for his size. He set the glass down with a thud, his bright, shrewd eyes looking us over. "New faces in the city! Welcome to The Bronze Griffin, the finest establishment this side of the Sun Gate! A place with history, my dears!" He leaned forward, and the cracked monocle he wore fell loose, caught by a chain. "Don't tell me," he said, looking from me, with my tall and serene posture, to the small and severe Azra'il. His storyteller's mind immediately filled in the gaps in the most incorrect way possible.
"A lady and her young daughter! How lovely!" he exclaimed, clearly delighted with his own deduction. "Escaping the noise of the big city for the heart of creativity, are we?" He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't you worry, madam. Ran away from a rude, unimaginative husband? Left a pompous nobleman behind? Your secrets are safe at The Bronze Griffin! I've seen it all!"
"We're just… looking for a quiet place to stay for a while, Master Yordle," I said, completely taken aback.
"Ah, but of course!" he twinkled. "Bartholomew, at your service! Innkeeper, connoisseur of secrets, and, in my youth, the only Yordle to ever sail the Pilt River in a single leather boot! A feat that, I might add, earned me an honourable mention from the Explorers' Guild!" He puffed out his chest, pointing to one of the many questionable medals on his waistcoat.
While Bartholomew revelled in his own legend, Azra'il, who had been examining him with a calculating silence, intervened. Her tone was that of a curious academic asking an innocent question.
"Impressive," she said, her voice devoid of any emotion. "Sailing the Pilt River in a leather boot… I imagine the footwear would have to be from a Freljordian giant to have sufficient buoyancy, and waterproofed with drüvask tallow. The logistics of it are fascinating." She tilted her head. "Tell me, Master Bartholomew, did you apply the tallow to the inside or the outside of the boot? It would drastically affect the drag coefficient in the water."
Bartholomew's bombastic flow came to a sudden halt. He blinked, caught off guard by the technical analysis of his obvious lie. "Well, ah… the outside, of course! To… ah… glide better!"
"Interesting," Azra'il continued, merciless. "Because drüvask tallow, when in prolonged contact with the Pilt's brackish water, creates a chemical reaction that actually increases friction. Not to mention it would attract every filefish in the region." She stared at him with her intense blue eyes. "Your boot would have sunk in less than ten minutes unless it was filled with air bladders, which would have compromised the space for your provisions. How did you circumvent that problem?"
A stunned silence hung over the bar. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Azra'il hadn't accused him of lying. She had cornered him with logic, treating his absurd story as an engineering problem to be solved. She was deconstructing the physics of his fantasy.
Bartholomew stared at her, his face going from pride to panic and finally, to a reluctant admiration. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then let out a booming laugh that made his cheeks wobble.
"Hah! She's good! Damned good! She took it apart! By Progress, girl, you'd make a fine naval engineer!" He looked from me to her, genuine respect in his eyes. "She must get it from her mother!" he exclaimed, but now the comment had a different weight. It wasn't about demeanour, but about an intellect as sharp as a Piltovan blade. "I see where she gets that cunning mind!"
The opportunity was there, perfect, served on a silver platter. Azra'il never could resist.
Before I could intervene, she took it, putting on the sweetest, most innocent expression her face could manage. "Oh, you're too kind, Master Bartholomew," she said. "But, to be precise, I only get half my cunning from her." She nodded her head in my direction.
She leaned forward as if sharing a secret. "I," she said with a dramatic sigh, "unfortunately got the other half of the family inheritance: all of the impatience, the stubbornness, and the fervent belief that the fastest way to solve a problem is to incinerate it with 'holy fire'."
I stared at her, a silent warning in my eyes. The jab about Kayle, disguised as self-deprecation, was a small masterpiece of provocation. She was painting my sister as the source of all her 'bad' habits, which was both outrageous and technically not a lie.
A shocked silence hung over the bar as Bartholomew, his eyes wide, now imagined a fiery, impulsive 'father' for this already fascinating family dynamic.
I gave her the tweak. Hard. This one said, *We are going to have a very serious talk about 'family inheritance' later.*
"A room, please," I said to Bartholomew, my voice dangerously sweet, but with a sharp look in Azra'il's direction. "With two beds. And if possible," I added, looking back at the bewildered Yordle, "could you place the beds in the furthest corners of the room? With perhaps… a very large bookshelf in between?"
Bartholomew blinked, completely immersed in our little drama. "Ah… I understand perfectly! A rough night! Space is paramount!" he said, nodding vigorously as if I had just entrusted him with the world's greatest secret.
He took a single, heavy brass key from the hook behind him. "The room at the end of the second-floor hall! The best view of the square!" he announced, pressing the key into my hand with a conspiratorial air.
"Thank you," I said, giving Azra'il one last warning glare, to which she just gave me an innocent smile that wouldn't have fooled a newborn.
We took our bags and went up the creaking wooden stairs. The room was simple but immaculately clean, just as he had said, with two single beds separated by a chasm of perhaps two metres. A woefully short distance. And, to my disappointment, there was no bookshelf in between.
I walked in, the exhaustion of the journey and the long time in Noxus finally weighing on me. But here, in this small room overlooking a square of artisans, I felt a spark of hope. I opened my bag and, carefully, took out the plant cuttings I had brought. I placed them on the windowsill. A small patch of wild, persistent life. A piece of myself, finally finding a place to put down roots, however temporarily, in the City of Progress. For now, it was enough.