"A blackbird sings on bluebird hill"
Chapter 1
There had been another attempt, and it ended the same way the last one had. It was just growing tiresome now—tiresome and mildly irritating to keep dragging them down to the cistern. "Them" being countless nameless people, all coming to kill him.
Talon dragged the body, far larger than his own, toward the edge of the concrete barrier. He caught his breath and rifled through the stiff's pockets, finding only some gold pieces and a note. It was unintelligible to him, but he pocketed it regardless. Perhaps it contained information he could exchange for gold. Next was a quick inspection of his fingers, where Talon found a nice gold ring. It wouldn't come off after a good few yanks, rigor mortis making it impossible. Luckily, there was nothing violently sawing through the flesh and bone couldn't solve to get his prize.
A firm kick to the body's midriff sent it falling into the still, murky waters. It hit the water with a disgusting splat, slowly beginning to sink into the sewage. Talon watched it with a little sneer before turning away, counting the man's gold on the palm of his bandaged hand. That one deserved to die more painfully; they'd thrown something into his face, and his left eye was still sore and irritated.
Talon emerged from the cistern, taking in the air of the night. It was thick and smog-like but didn't smell like the entirety of Noxus' waste, unlike down there. He scuttled along, back to the slums, wanting to get out of sight before someone noticed this fool never came back either. He picked at the dried mud stuck around his eye, realizing that was what had been thrown at his face.
He walked further into the slums, weary and sore. His sleeping quarters felt so far from here, but he was too tired to scavenge for food and climb to his hovel. Instead, he made a detour into a seedy tavern. Hoping for an easy meal tonight.
Talon had heard its name spoken a few times: The Hound's Head. It was a favorite among the denizens of the slums. Pushing open the heavy iron door, Talon slipped inside. The dimly lit interior was filled with the low noise of conversations and the clinking of mugs. He weaved through the crowd, his small frame allowing him to pass unnoticed. Everything towered over him: the tables, the chairs, and especially the people. He'd lived here so long now, though, they didn't intimidate him.
He approached the bar, where a large man with a thick beard was serving drinks. Talon hesitated for a moment before clambering up onto the bar stool and mimicking the noise he'd heard many use to get attention—a simple throat clearing. The bartender looked over his shoulder, recognizing Talon as the young, barely verbal mite.
"What do you want, Talon? I'm not letting you sleep in the toilets again."
Talon, however, pointed toward the floor, then mimicked a stair-stepping motion with his hand. The bartender raised an eyebrow, understanding the unspoken request. He glanced around to ensure no one was watching, then nodded subtly. He then moved aside, revealing a door behind the bar. He unlocked it and gestured for Talon to go through. Talon slipped past him and descended the narrow, creaky stairs into the underground cellar.
The air grew thick and dusty as he slowly descended, and the sounds of the tavern above faded. The atmosphere was different—darker, more brutal. He approached a second door and knocked three times in a very specific way. Eventually, a small peephole opened up and a pair of stark blue eyes glared down at him. Talon went into his tattered pocket and unraveled a small parchment, presenting the writing on it to the lookout.
He saw the man's gaze harden and his heart stopped—had they changed the password? But the latch unlocked and the door opened. "Learn to fucking talk, will you? Sick of people writing that word down for you." the lookout sneered, giving the door a good slam behind Talon to try and phase him. It did not work.
Talon pulled his hood lower over his face, stepping into the dimly lit cellar. The strong stench of sweat, piss and blood was sickening, making him grimace as he pressed on. In the center of the cellar, a group was gathered, their loud cheers and jeers echoing off the stone walls. Talon's gaze shifted to a large pen where two dogs were locked in a vicious fight.
A Noxian pit hound with sharp, cropped ears had some sort of mongrel mix's entire face in its jaws. Saliva and foam sprayed as it ragged the poor thing around. Loud yips and screams made Talon shiver, and he quickly scuttled past, blocking out the cheer as the mongrel eventually got dragged out as the loser.
He needed to find someone in the crowd, someone who would be his ticket to some food. His eyes flicked over the faces in the dim light, searching for a familiar one. Not spotting the tattered brown cloak among the punters, he moved toward the back. Finally, he spotted him in a card game with two men and a woman. Familiar dirty blond hair, patchy five o'clock shadow, and his arms riddled with some kind of skin infection. Talon approached and again cleared his throat.
Nightsneak glanced down, the cigarette in his mouth twitching and spilling ash onto the stone floor. "Not now, Talon." He dismissed him, waving him away before going back to his game. A firm tug on his cape made Nightsneak turn sharply, but before he could become more irate, Talon flashed eight gold rings in his palm.
"Trade," Talon said, his throat a little raspy from sickness starting to take hold of him.
Nightsneak paused his game and spun around on his makeshift seat at the sight of the gold rings, his deep blue eyes glinting with interest. He reached out and plucked them from Talon's palm one by one, inspecting each with a greedy eye. Sneaks turned them over, checking for markings or signs of value, his grin becoming more eccentric with each ring. He didn't even seem phased that one was caked in blood still, as Talon hadn't bothered to wash it in the rain water.
"These are nice, very nice" he muttered, almost to himself, as he examined the last ring with a nice studded diamond in it. Nightsneak looked back at Talon, a crooked smile gracing his lips. "Where'd you steal these from, Talon?"
Talon didn't answer, simply maintaining his gaze. His silence was enough; Nightsneak knew better than to press for details. He was all too aware of the boy's reputation as a thief…and now killer. Sneaks nodded, satisfied with the offer, and tucked the rings into a large pocket, giving it a delighted pat.
"Alrighty… Now what'dya want off ol' Sneaks?"
Talon's stomach answered for him, a low, painful groan making the young boy quietly shift his gaze down.
"You're just after food?... Fair enough. Follow me." He got up with a long stretch and threw his cards down, telling the other seedy players that he knew exactly what was in his hand, so don't go cheating. Then he took Talon back up the stairs and into the main tavern.
"Which one won then?" the bartender asked upon seeing Sneaks emerge, his fist grinding a cloth against the inside of a glass.
"The bloody pit dog. They always win against anything that ain't another pit dog!" Sneaks retorted. "I almost feel bad for the idiots who bet on the other one, got torn to pieces."
"Aye," the barman looked at Talon. "You bet too, lad?"
Talon just slowly shook his head and then lowered it.
"You got anything edible left? Can you hook Talon up here, stick it on my tab?" Sneaks said, slapping the barman on the back before descending back into the cellar.
"You owe me over one hundred gold on that tab, you little bastard!" the barman growled after him. He looked back to Talon, who looked up at him expectantly. "Alright then, go find somewhere quiet and out of the way, and I'll see what's not out of date yet."
Talon finally trudged home after a decent meal of luke-warm chips covered in vinegar, finding he had the energy now to ascend the large, half-ruined tower. His home, his refuge. As he reached the very zenith, where his sleeping area awaited, Talon finally let himself collapse into the dirty blankets nestled inside the make-shift shelter he'd created many months ago. The familiar coos of pigeons echoed around him, their nests tucked into the nooks and crannies of the decaying structure soothed him, as his tired body finally slipped into a deeply needed sleep.
Talon woke with a start, feeling the dawn's light hitting the dilapidated tower walls. When he blinked, his left eye throbbed painfully, the irritation from the previous night having worsened into a raw, infected mess. He could feel the swollen, sticky skin pulling uncomfortably with each blink. Groaning, he sat up and rubbed at it with his hood sleeve, hoping to ease some of the pain.
While eating his meal the previous night, Talon had overheard some men discussing a weapon shipment—swords, knives, maybe even guns. He rubbed his eye again. His own weapons were becoming beyond repair, worse still he'd often either lose them inside people or have to abandon them at the scene to make a quick getaway.
Back on the streets, Talon emerged from the darkness. One golden eye peeked out to survey his surroundings, watching for guards. The infection in his eye made it hard to focus, but he couldn't afford to be careless. He stepped out to face the world.
There was a healthy amount of people going to and from, dipping into shops and stopping to talk to vendors. Perfect targets to quietly slip a hand in and out of their pockets. Talon quietly passed through the city, his nimble fingers deftly acquiring small items and coins along the way. Finally, he made his way to a warehouse, entering via the rooftops.
It was dingy, and he could hear rats scurrying above and below him. But this was where he needed to be. Talon crouched into a hunch, staying out of sight. He remained in that position for over an hour, his small muscles starting to feel the strain.
Just as he considered shifting to relieve the discomfort, he heard footsteps approaching.
Two women entered the warehouse, their voices low but clear in the quiet space. One was tall and lean, with a scar on her exposed back, while the other was shorter, her dark hair pulled back tightly. Exactly who the men described they'd be expecting. They headed toward the center of the warehouse where a few scattered crates stood.
"—Gotta make sure the guards don't come sniffing. They find weapons they can't arm their own with…"
The conversation was fragmented, and Talon strained to catch the important parts. But he soon heard what he wanted: the two back crates were what he needed. The other four were decoys to get through the border. He watched them begin to exit, the scarred woman giving a long look around the warehouse before shutting the doors behind her.
Talon waited. He waited five minutes, then three minutes more. Only then did he finally untense and shift out of his crouched position, feeling his small body protest at changing position so suddenly. His muscles ached from the strain, but he pushed through the discomfort.
The old, rusted metal groaned under his weight, but he pressed on, his eyes locked on the crates below. Looking for his way down towards them, his eyes landing on a ladder. Just as he was about to reach a safer spot, the catwalk suddenly gave way with a loud screech of metal. Talon's eyes widened in shock as he felt the ground disappear beneath him.
He tumbled through the air before a word could come out, arms flailing as he cried out, and crashed into one of the crates below. The impact sent packing materials flying in all directions, and a sharp pain shot through his body. Everything went black upon impact as the boy lay unconscious amid the scattered debris, some began to resettle on top of him, slightly concealing him.
Talon lay there for hours. Unseen, unfound.
When he finally began to come to, everything around him was dark. Talon remembered falling, deducing he'd hit his head judging by the large swollen bump on it. He groaned softly, the pain in his head throbbing in sync with the infection in his eye. Slowly, he tried to sit up, wincing as the movement sent sharp jolts of pain through his body. His shoulder throbbed painfully, along with head and his stupid eye.
He realized he was still in the crate, shifting to move various packaging fillers off of himself. A hard push against the lid did nothing; it was nailed shut, making him feel that surge of anxiety, he was trapped. The ground felt like it was shifting under him, as if the crate was moving in transit.
"Don't panic," he told himself. "There are air holes."
Talon would just have to wait for the crate to be opened, then get out and run as fast as he could. For now, he just had to sit, nestled in the various papers and packaging, trying to calm his racing heart.
Hours passed, and he soon fell asleep, lulled by the creaks and groans of the transit vehicle he was obviously in. But hours began to stretch into days. Talon felt himself growing hungry, parched, and achy from being in the same laid-down position, unable to stretch out properly.
Little amounts of light filtered through the cracks of the crate, making it hard for him to plan his escape. He had two blades concealed in his jeans pockets. Already plotting how to utilize them to get out of this god's forsaken box. Talon always expected he'd die with a knife in his back, face down in a gutter as he'd done to so many of his hunters. Not trapped in a box, slowly and painfully from thirst and hunger.
After what Talon judged as day two, he realized the cart had finally stopped. The sudden stillness and hearing muffled sounds of outside conversation. He knew this might be his chance to escape, he needed to get out. His throat was so dry he'd drink from a puddle at this point.
Keeping his mind off of his thirst, he reached for the small knife he kept hidden in his pocket and with careful precision, he pressed the blade against one of the crate's joints. Twisting and twisting, each movement slow and tentative to avoid making too much noise. The wood was stubborn, resisting his efforts. But the knife's edge gradually worked its way into the joint, splintering the wood little by little.
Twisting and sawing, slowly prying at the crate's lid. With one last twist, the joint gave way slightly, allowing him to slowly push the crate up ever so slightly. Talon paused, listening for any sounds outside the crate. Hearing none, he slowly peered through his created opening.
His golden eyes scanned the area. What he saw surprised the young boy, lush green pastures and clear blue skies. He wasn't in the capitol now, Talon wasn't sure if he was even in Noxus anymore.