It was the sound of a bag bursting, elasticity pushed past its bounds, and instantaneous as the gush of water pouring from aqueducts. Like ink blots welling on a piece of papyrus, rich globs of vermillion gathered on the floor, filling the crevices of the stone. Red rivulets squirming their way around in arcs, they outlined the shape of a man's pair of leather boots.
The curdling cries that tore from the throats of two, in revolted gasps and wailing, echoed between the towering steel that enclosed the area. Just like this heavy musk that had overwhelmed the air, the voices melded into one and hung over the head of the Herald. He shifted from his spot, foot pivoting on the brown strip of cloth squashed beneath his boot. He looked at them to see a young light mage snuffing her scream with a fist in her mouth, her jaw clapping down, and the Hero.
The Defender was the first to recover. His voice stricken by shock and disgust all melded into one, fueled by a flickering fire, "What the hell are you doing!" For once the Piltovian's voice lacked the conviction and the command that he naturally possessed. His tongue was pressed behind the bottom row of his teeth as he tried to stop the gagging urge that welled up in his throat, but try as did he could not stop the watering of his eyes. He blinked fiercely as they burned at the sight before him.
The Herald's arm looked as if it had just acquired a fresh coat of paint. His augmentation glistened with life and death all the same. Between his digits was a lengthy roseate whip, which coiled delicately over both of his wrists as he sat on top of a blackened lump and slop.
The mechanized man finally answered in his distorted voice, "Zaun business." His reply curt and nothing unexpected for a denizen of a mad world.
Viktor rose, letting his fingers trace over the grooves of the whip. His weight shifting all into his feet as he further flattened the mat on which he stood. "I suggest you leave," he looked rather fascinated with the dripping object that occupied his grip. It was barbed at the end and it sported ridges all around, where a butterfly of sorts crowned the other end. Bone could be so beautiful, the gentle curves of the spine, he mused.
That was enough for the Demacian. Though she had her fair share of battles, this was entirely revolting on a biological level. Luxanna turned away, doubling over, and she wretched the contents of her empty stomach. Jayce gripped his Mercury Cannon as he moved so that he was situated between the half-caste and the girl. His skin crawled and it was time to go and leave Viktor in his disillusions. With the Demacian Crownguard by his side, he could not risk her person.
The Piltovian turned to her and waited for her to recompose herself, then tugged her to go. It was a dead end. The trail ended cold, the girl's shoulders sagged. The two hurried off into the direction they had came from. She looked over her shoulder to see if the half-caste had moved, but the Zaun fog haw swallowed him whole. She swore she could see the faint lamps that burned in the distance. The thought of him made her insides twist.
As for Viktor, his attention returned to the body. In its torsion, it was unrecognizable as just a human. Its form had deflated, collapsed without its defining white column. What had been blond hair had been dyed sable and sanguine.
"If only they knew…." he crouched and patted what he figured must have been the skull; it was severely burned on one half and crushed even. Viktor took a minute to peel the crusted body that had melted and stuck from the ground. Charred flesh flaked as he pried the doll into his arms; if only he cared.
The Machine Herald cradled Ezreal as he walked further into the abyss back home. He was sure the Hero would return for him, but their was little proof. Viktor looked down with mild annoyance as he continued.
Ezreal clung to him.