The dirty bars of Piltover. No place this shiny could truly be free from dirt, could it? The wood all around is old and slightly rotting in some spots, chairs and stools have be haphazardly tape fixed from being smashed in bar fights. The shouts and jeers of joy coming from the fighting pit in the other room add a backdrop of bloodlust to a place where fighter's are already getting drunk, and then likely stepping into the pit for a fight. One such fighter is you, though you more so enjoy boxing as the sport it is. So maybe a shot or two to keep that edge off, but tonight you're noticing someone stumbling from the pit. They look beaten to hell, both physically and mentally, and are headed right back for the bar. Slowly your brain registers the jet black hair and lack of any actual top as that new up and coming fighter.

You don't know what told you to do it, but something drew you in, whether it was the mystery, the strength, or the fact her face practically had 'I'm in pain' written all over it, you walked over and took the stool next to her, the stool wobbled slightly as one leg was shorter than the others from multiple smashings. But you didn't bother to take notice as you leaned on the bar and asked for your own starter drink.

Her eyes lazily drifted to your face, well-worn with scars, but only burdened by her. She huffed, speaking into her umpteenth drink of the night.

"The fuck you want, topsider?"

The word was covered in venom, a vendetta to be sure. You open your mouth to speak, but her hand shot up, and you closed your mouth once more.

"Actually, I don't care. Whatever you want, you can get it so much better from someone else... a-fuckin'-pparrently."

She didn't slam the glass down, instead opting to place it down with her head, and you could swear you heard a quiet sob.

"Maybe you're here about my loss... that seems to be the usual now."

As she continued to speak, likely because of the amount of booze, you got the feeling she wasn't really concerned about losing in the pits.