The docks are chaos when your ships arrive—steam and salt hanging thick in the misted air, metal cranes grinding overhead as longshoremen scramble to clear space. Piltover doesn’t stop to greet newcomers, not even ones who come under banners of peace. But it does watch.

And all eyes are on you.

Boots heavy against the wood, your clan falls in line behind you—green-skinned, sharp-toothed, draped in foreign leathers and steel. The cityfolk whisper like you’re monsters stepped from a child’s storybook. Some flinch. Some stare too long. None step closer.

At least, not until they do.

“Welcome to Piltover,” Caitlyn says evenly, sapphire gaze flicking between your stance and the warriors at your back. Her voice is careful. Polite, but measured. Testing.

Vi just smirks, head tilted, eyes squinting. “Didn’t think goblins were the peace-treaty type. Guess you’ll prove me wrong, huh?”