Tags: Riven, Lux, Fantasy? Drama? Post Ionian War.

Riven scowls under the reassuring cover of her weathered brown hood when the white-haired warrior notices another Noxian deserter boarding the ship. The man's facial features covered behind the remnants of a torn green rag that had been probably shredded from a dead man's uniform. A sea of wary and frightened gazes intently follow the limping form of the injured juggernaut of a man as the wounded soldier finds an empty space to collapse down to, one hand clenching his weapon in a death grip even as he attempts to rest his aching bones.

The white-haired albino spares the injured Noxian defector another cautious glance and then returns back to her babysitting duty. Red orbs slowly sinking down to the unconscious form of the sickly Demacian spy that's currently pressed against her frame. Luxanna's shivering form practically glued to her side as the younger noblewoman's hitched breaths keep tickling Riven's chin whenever Lux murmurs something unintelligible in her deep slumber.

Well, at least the Demacian weakling had ceased attempting to talk her head off, the former Noxian commander tries to somewhat lighten the mood, albeit without much success as it is inevitable. But then again, that might have been impossible in the first place, that's with a crowd of scared fugitives boarding this rotted sea-bucket away from their homes and the sight of the Ionian coast burning just behind them.

The mood hanging above the Proud Prince was shrouded in misery and despair, the sobbing of young children and devastated widowed wives plashing over the calm waves of the emerald sea. No flags were flying defiantly from the mast of their depressingly old vessel. No good luck charms and Ionian trinkets were woven around the creaking wheel. A muddied piece of white cloth however had been precautiously tied into the bottom of a filthy twine that had been loosely attached around a hoop fitted outside the ship's crow nest. The makeshift surrender flag had been prepared before the Proud Prince had even left the bombed port. Not a good sign for either the mourning fugitives covered in their blankets and ruined coats nor the worn-down, cursing crew that was presently manning the rocking ship to the best of their inebriated abilities.

Riven sighs audibly under her brown hood, the snow-haired warrior's nostrils instantly overwhelmed by the scent of burnt flesh and human decay. The potent odor of war following the guilt-ridden defector even there, on this jumbled heap of salt-infused planks and rusted, nearly useless iron nails. The nauseating stench of fresh blood spilled over the previously fertile, but now utterly destroyed Ionian fields wafting over the waves reminding Riven of her terrible actions. The inhumane orders that she had carried out with the conviction of a zealot fighting a holy war.

So much innocent blood painting her clenched palms the same color as her pupils. So many screams and pleading voices filling her mind like a boiling cauldron, threatening to dribble out of her ears and nose at a moment's notice and cauterize her face with the scorching heat of her shame and guilt.

Fingernails bite into pale flesh, teeth sinking into dry lips. Crimson eyes closing momentary offering the discarded former Noxian commander a vision of acidic fumes and manmade meat grinders.

Why did she survive from that hell? Why not one of the peaceful farmers that she had been ordered to put down like mere cattle? Why not the child of the screaming widow preying to the skies above with desperate pained eyes and tears rolling down her cheeks?

The Demacian spy abruptly moving fitfully in her sleep is all that prevents the Noxian deserter from unwittingly voicing those thoughts in the mourning crowd of solemn immigrants. Sanguine orbs open once more taking in the sights of the tormented humanoid husks on the ship. Some of the passengers are tending to their wounds, some others are keeping a vigilant eye on their belonging, while a few of them appear to be sleeping on the hard wooden floor or searching for familiar faces into the crowd.

Riven sees the other Noxian defector once more. His mostly obscured visage a mask of uncertainty as he too observes the people around them with a rigid, yet defeated body posture. The hunched man's skull-decorated war axe set down atop the creaky floorboards of the run-down ship, his spiked armor bent and battered from what must have been tens to thousands of numerous brutal fights. There is a fleeting moment when the two Noxians' gazes meet and recognition glints behind the burly man's vibrant red irises. Those same red eyes pin Riven with an intensity that makes the former Noxian commander stiffen and press Lux tighter against her chest, bandaged fingers slowly coiling around the handle of her shatter runic blade.

The tense moment then passes, however, and the rigid Noxian general tentatively averts his scrutinizing gaze. The colossal man's avid attention quickly returning back to the fading spectacle of the burning island of Ionia and the black smoke that's rising above it.

Riven slightly relaxes finding some curious reassurance in the blonde light mage's weight comfortably settling down on her lap. Lux's low murmuring ghosting over her scarred cheekbone. The white-haired warrior keeps one hand wrapped around the sleeping Demacian spy's back and the other one close to her weapon just in case. Red eyes gazing intently into the bleeding sunset and the empty horizon as the small Ionian vessel slips over the salty water, sailing into the promise of a new, better tomorrow.

Writer's note: The long awaited cameo of the true protagonist of the story -Or at least that is what that suspicious individual keeps claiming to me.

-Not a good sign for either the mourning fugitives covered in their blankets and ruined coats nor the worn-down, cursing crew that was presently manning the rocking ship to the best of their inebriated abilities

"Aye!" Suddenly bellows Captain Gmp as he abruptly burst out of his cabin. "Thee' seagulls are flying high today, they are! There is a storm a'proaching an' we have to appease the gods lest we sink down like Yasuo's winrate!" "You'ther, the hooded one! Start making out with the lass that's resting on top of you! VE be appeasing the gods by the means of an ancient Yuri ritual!"

When Riven just remains still, staring at the Captain incredulously, the old pirate starts waving his hooked arms irritably "Why u no suck face!" "You no care for all the children an' women that will die when the storm hits me vessel? Are you a monster, you blackhearted lass?! Quickly wet yo tongue with the love nectar of the blonde vixen lest the seas swallow us!"