The brew-filled mugs clung against the wooden tables of the tavern located in the lower part of Noxus. The cold, winter air rushed all the citizens towards any building they could hide from harsh weather. The later the hour, the more people would gather to drink and warm up.
This tavern was not special, one could say it was the place free of higher rank people. The citizens of the lower part of Noxus preferred to not meddle with neither soldiers nor Generals, as their social status was drawing a clear line in their interactions. Noxus supported strength in any form, any idle human was looked down upon, any drunkard was not worth being called Noxian. This certain tavern contained a big group of people seemingly not worthy.
No sign of clean air found its place inside this God-forgotten area, polluted by the dirt of the smog. In the back of the scrapped bar, a man held to a cello slowly drawing out a tune, trying to fit in with the sounds of creaking tables and heavy thuds of steel decorated tankards, yet not quite fitting the atmosphere with the slow, calming sound his instrument drew.
Ash dropped down the cigars filled the crannies of the old wooden floors, the wet piles slipping from mud-colored boots only polished the spots, but the owner paid no mind to the filth surrounding the tavern. After all, customers were coming and going, but ever returning for another fill of underground delicacy brew he served.
The wary eyes of the men did follow every step of newcomers, no one greeting, not a single soul seemed to mind the disturbances outside their own tables. It was a simple illusion the customers created to not cause any trouble for themselves unless the wanderer had no business in settling down by one of the tables or the bar to knock down a beer or two. It had its own perks, no fight had broken down in months. All gathered in to converse about the so-called elite from the upper area of the Noxian Empire, yet rather than peacefully talking the differences, they preferred to spit down at any mention of them.
Hate towards the elite was truly uniting topic in this God-forgotten place, yet not only the hostile attitude was strengthening the bonds between customers. Sometimes someone would cheer, as a fellow comrade would down too many fills and fell face-first on the table unconscious. The common activity would involve bets to be risen at the sight, gambling if the poor drunkard broke his nose and, favoring his misfortune, earn a coin or two.
The hits on creaking tables put down a certain rhythm in which all would move, even first-timers would have to force themselves not to follow-up on the intense mashes with their feet as they marched onwards to the bar for their fill.
One of the men sat on the bench with back to his comrades, observing the movement of never motionless tavern, smirk rising up his unkempt mustache and beard, barely showing off his mouth until it would open to get another chug of brew, only to spill drops down the thick hair without a sign of care to wipe down the liquid.
The door screeched open as a pair of steel-toe boots marched inside, just a simple sound could hint the status of the newcomer. It surely was a soldier, but no one seemed to notice the more expensive footwear. The face hidden under long hood of the worn out coat did not pick anyone interest as the style of it fit the unprosperous commoners. However, the style of walking did, the fellow Noxian did not give in to the rhythm of brew filled tankards, the eyes of the soldier did not mind the drunkards.
Slow motion the soldier moved with indicated the unneeded attempt to hide the steel thuds against the floor as if trying to hide the sound with the sloppy movement of feet barely leaving the ground. Though the movement itself was weird, the sound did not uncover the identity of the intruder. No one seemed to pay attention to the visibly stiff stranger.
Unlike the others, the bearded man did notice the color of short hair barely standing out from beneath the cloth, and his smirk only grew into a burst of laughter. He did not move, he only roared with his deep bass voice, urping the spits of phlegm down before his own boots. Surprisingly, unlike the brew, not a single drop of filthy fluid from the back of his throat polluted his wild beard's territory.
The source of laughter drew the soldier closer, carefully placing the boots to not step on the phlegm visible from the distance. The silhouette finally approached the man. Barely heard sigh was let out from beneath the hood, and the Noxian first looked at the floor disapprovingly then at the man, catching his gaze and staring back fiercely.
The eyes he met were stained with the color of blood, the dark red tint in the eyes was not an unusual sight as the fellow customers often found it after the ridiculous bets were won. The difference was however in the placement of the color – the sight they would often catch was of the injured whites after the impact, not the irises of a person. The truly red colored eyes were quite an exceptional sight, yet the man seemed to be familiar with the owner of those abnormal features.
His hand reached towards the soldier as the smile on his face widened and their palms clasped in a steady grasp and something looking like a shake before the standing figure pulled back.
"When you're born in the dirt the only way to grow is up." He lowered his voice just so his acquaintance would hear. And so response came out in low husky voice.
"Not all of us do." The customer hastily moved on towards the bar. Long fingers impatiently tapped on the wooden surface, making the owner turn his attention towards the new client. Not a single tint of care was shown on the face of the soldier, the knocking intensified until the mug hit the desk, barely an inch away from the customer's fingers.
It seemed disrespectful towards the owner, yet no comment left his mouth. He held the tankard until the gold coins left the bag of the unfamiliar person – only then he let the drink be snatched away, his hand moving in a similar manner to grab the money, wary of thievish habits of the mindless scums he would often call his friends'.
"Long has it been since you've shown your face around, kid." The bearded man chugged on his drink as his friend walked to the other side of the table, forcing the old man to turn his body.
The response, however, was not met by voice. The soldier slowly nodded and frowned, it forced the man to lean on the table to closely watch the movement of his friend, to not miss a single facial expression.
At first, the hooded customer was watching carefully the liquid inside the mug, turning the tankard left and right to see what's under the thick foam. When the action met no success, the soldier gave up and sighed again before the mug was put to the lips.
A cough followed then a spit on the floor met the other fluids left by previous conversation partner of the bearded man.
"It tastes like horse piss." The disgust painted itself on the face under the hood and the voice sounded higher than before. Few coughs after the tone of the soldier stabilized itself and became low and husky again. The laughter from the other side of the table caught newcomer's attention.
"If horse piss is served in the army those days, I'm glad I'm leftover shitting down the streets." The response seemed to the hooded person more disgusting than the liquid spat on the floor, and so the mug met the lips once more, this time it did not meet the ground.
"Been a long time, Allen." The red eyes shined dangerously in the dim light of the tavern. After a split second, the free hand moved to fix the hood and hide them again. "How's Ma doing?"
The fingers of the man slowly made its way towards the beard only to scratch it a bit, trying his best to look like he was thinking. Patience was a strong side of his conversation partner, as the thinking process took quite a few minutes and several chugs of alcohol before he opened his mouth.
"Kids come and go. Run away and die or live on streets who knows, but Ma's strong woman." He hummed quietly. "She had to bury three more this month. Too sick to stay alive, poor bastards. You didn't know them, but they were good lads, may their blood not go to waste."
Tankard hit the table with enough force to stop Allen's thoughts about dying children. He understood the meaning behind the aggressive motion and coughed a few times before changing his words.
"She's worried about you, kid. You should pay her a visit once in a while." He nodded to himself before taking a sip out of his mug. "She loves you like the daughter she never had."
"No need." Empty tankard was put at the table in such a delicate manner the wooden desk never felt before. The disgust from the taste of brew was forced out of the soldier's face to be replaced by a sad smile. "She sent me to army herself."
The heavy pouch hit the table as the woman stood up and moved the coin-filled sack towards the man. He didn't think twice and put it inside his coat, holding onto pocket as if his life depended on it, taking notice of the eyes that would follow their transition.
"Riven," Allen grabbed the sleeve of her coat and looked up to the soldier, finally able to take a proper look at her face. "As much as you will deny it, she still loves you."
She shrugged his hand off and focused her eyes on the ground. The regret filled her body as she could not find the proper way to reply to his words, although she wanted to stay more and properly act in front of the man she trusted, her time outside was over. With the last tap on his shoulder, she forced a laugh and made her way out of the tavern.