[Fan Fiction] "No Glass Ceilings in Noxian Politics"
##I love the world of League of Legends...
Stories of Runeterra, her cities and her characters, are fascinating. Like most players, I'm not on the narrative team. But, like a few of us, I dabble in short stories and novellas whose main characters are League champions.
I wanted to attempt finding a consistent meeting place for players who love lore, narrative and the craft of writing to get together and share our stories. We can read stories, comment and offer feedback on them, and help each other get better at the whole creative writing gig. And, like I said before, we can post our own stories, inspired by the featured story or not, to keep our discussions going.
Context for my first story: as a reminder, I am not a member of the narrative team. In no way, shape or polymorphed squirrel are my words canonical at all. In fact, I probably go off-canon at points. Last note, Cassiopeia is still all human at this point, and none of the characters involved have joined the League yet.
####No Glass Ceilings in Noxian Politics
The blackfire burned low in the lanterns lining the high stone walls of Viscount Swain's manor. Katarina du Cocteau crouched atop a snarling granite maw, the icon of a lesser house. Green light whispered across her face, burying shadows in the furrows of her brow. Even a twice-removed nephew of the Noxian high commander could afford apartments nearer the city center, but then Anton Swain would find fewer victims for his foul masques.
Less than a month after shambling into her school with an expelled student reeking of Freljordian white ale, Anton hosted his first Black Masque. Of course, the first two events were like any other masquerade held by lesser Noxian nobles. Haughty, pretentious, clinging to a past built by blood inherited instead of blood spilled. But the lights were dimmed at the third party. Attendees were dressed in mourning, no sigils or medals. Instead of garish, painted fans they wore shrouds of impenetrable shadow. And the first girl disappeared that night.
Not from the school, Katarina chastised herself for forgetting. It had been a fresh-faced third daughter of a sergeant whose meteoric rise was matched only by his complete inability to blaze in the same sky as other Noxian stars. No one had admitted she'd vanished from the party, of course. She could have left on a ship bound for Bilgewater or a caravan headed south towards the desert. She hadn't, Katarina discovered. But she could have.
She'd been attending the parties for two months now, although she never had gotten an official invitation. The gargoyles were welcoming enough, in their own grotesque way. Friendlier, she was sure than the Viscount's personal retinue.
"I still don't understand why we can't just go in the front door. I have a dress. And an invitation. Written in blood and everything."
Katarina looked over her shoulder at the young girl who insisted on following her to the party. "I don't," she snapped. "And you don't have to be here."
"It's cute that you think I'd let you sneak into some minor noble's party and possibly severely aggravate any number of important people all by your lonesome." Evanie White wore the same style of shadowleathers as Katarina, although hers had seen less use.
Evanie raised her head to the falling rain. "He could've picked a night with better weather to host his weeping party."
"You shouldn't swear."
The younger woman ignored her, staring down the wall they'd just climbed up. "I hope getting down is easier than the climb to the top."
Katarina grimaced. "You don't have--"
"Fine, I admit it. I chose to be here. I am choosing to be here right now. Happy?"
"I'd be happier if you were back at the dorm." Katarina went back to examining the wide glass window that sprawled across the roof. Far below, she could see the whirling shapes of drunk Noxian nobles attempting to dance.
"What are we doing now?" Evanie asked.
"I'm going to sneak through the window and lower a rope down."
"Uh. That is, um, a plan. Not necessarily a good plan, but, sure. Hey, did I tell you about--"
###2
Away from the party raging in the main hall, Anton Swain swept along one of the many corridors snaking through his manor. Dimly lit by frogbelly moss after sunset, the hallway was lined with delicate sculptures and tall, narrow windows. Walking alongside Anton, a woman glides draped in a midnight-black gown.
"Well, that was interesting, in its own way," she muttered. "I prefer my entertainment a little less, red."
Anton shrugged. She went on, "Have you thought about what I asked?"
His shoulders twitching, Anton lashed at her, "There was a time when being Noxian meant something--you won't remember, Cass--"
"Neither do you, Anton," Cassiopeia du Cocteau cut him off.
"The blood, the purest blood, Cass, the strongest blood bled for Intrigue. Now, the army bans Intrigue. They'd shut me down. And you want me to ask my great-uncle to let your lover accompany my expedition? You've grown weak, your blood is thin. Tell me, do you cry for him?”
"I have cried for men, Anton, and none of them were you."
Anton laughed.
Cassiopeia leaned towards him, freezing in her stride. "Do you like thinking of me, crying? Does that excite you? You have exactly one tiny connection to a single noble house from two generations ago. This manor? This masquerade? Paid for by your great-uncle's military wages. You're only the slightest bit more noble than Jericho Swain himself by grace of your grandfather's predilection for prostitutes."
"I could have you beaten for saying that."
"No Anton, you couldn’t. Do you know why?"
Anton Swain glared at her.
Cassiopeia turned her back to him, walking away as he stood in shock. "Because I actually am noble."
She pulled open the door to the opulent ballroom, filled with black dresses and blacker dress uniforms. In Noxus, even the least martial nobles pretend at being military, Cassiopeia scoffed, letting the doors swing closed behind her.
###3
Katarina and Evanie hunched over, crouched among the twisted gargoyles and wicked crenellations.
"And then he tried to--Kat--isn't that your sister?"
Far below them, Cassiopeia and Anton Swain entered the ballroom. Long flickering shadows made Cassiopeia's gown seem to stretch on forever behind her.
"Tears! Wha in the name of the last emperor is she wearing?"
"Really, Kat? Your sister shows up the night we go sneaking around Anton Swain's house and the first place you go is to her dress?"
Katarina stood back away from the glass, checking the daggers in their sheathes along her waist, thighs, forearms, wrists, neck, ribs, ankles and feet. "I mostly just wanted you to shut up about Draven."
"What is she doing here?" Evanie asked as she ran through her own inventory.
"I have no idea; I've told her enough about Anton Swain. She knows what happens at these masquerades." She resumed her crouch, leaning towards the glass.
"We have to find Tymara. They brought her inside two hours ago. Why isn't she in the ballroom? Who am I talking to right now? Why do I even bother?" Evanie let her voice trail off.
Katarina's gaze was locked on the scene a hundred feet below. She tilted her head, cocking her ear even closer. She winced as she overheard an awkward conversation. "Seriously, stop with the talking. I need to hear them."
"We're, what, a thousand feet above the ballroom? Fine. A hundred. There's still no way you can hear anything in this rain."
Katarina ignored her, flourishing a dagger in the gloom, its silver blade flashing.
"That's nice, I can do that , too." Evanie brandished her own small blade, trying to spin it between her fingers the way Katarina had. A fumble and the knife clattered to the glass, a small crease crackling over the pane.
Katarina let out a deep sigh. "You may possibly be the worst assassin ever. How'd you get into the school again?"
Evanie slumped to pick up her knife. "Magic, I think they said."
###4
Cassiopeia's eyes swept across the room. "For a nefarious, secret black masquerade, there's an awfully high number of attendees tonight," she whispered in Anton's ear. As they approached one of the larger groups she spoke up. "No, you're right, Anton. There is more to being noble than merely blood. I am not my sister. I never joined the military."
"And yet, you could talk to them," Anton let his own voice carry, the two of them drawing a crowd. "To your father," he continued. "Convince him to do what he has to do. He's the third-highest ranking noble in the city, and only Jericho stands above him in the High Command."
Cassiopeia spun around, taking in the eager gaze of the onlookers. Most of them, she observed, were rather interested in the cut of her dress. "Are we bartering, cousin? If I pry some of my father's time away from his precious war games. If I reason with him until he agrees to oppose the military action to the north. If I do this, Chaeme accompanies us?"
Anton began to point and grasp, his hands a flurry of motion as he spoke, spittle flying from his flailing fishlips. "I'm not some sore-swollen Bilgewater pirate, Cass. I'm not bartering. It's the right course and you know it. That slattern bladesister was infected. We do not have wars to fight, we hone our skills behind closed doors and the army is keeping those doors propped open. Did you listen, how she begged before she died?"
The crowd went silent. Stray clattering wine glasses and dropped silverware plucked a discordant dirge in the background.
Cassiopeia paused and fixed Anton with a deadly glare. "I didn't come here to fight with you, Anton Swain."
The room echoed with a loud crash and an explosion of glass. Katarina du Cocteau tumbled as she landed on the smooth marble. Rolling to her feet, her daggers spread out in a fan, she faced Anton and Cassiopeia. The crowd's murmur grew to frantic chatter as the identity of the unexpected guest spread.
Katarina flipped her hair back and stepped into the flickering torchlight. Twin daggers held at the ready, she realized the audience had guards. Ten of them. The sound of steel slew the silence of the masquerade. All she could do was shrug and nod towards Cassiopeia.
"That's alright, sister. I did."
