ottoline carlisle was in an unfortunate position. after silco’s death, there was a cavernous power vacuum in zaun. as much as the man was cruel, a murderer in more ways than one, the man had woven a tenuous stability.

admittedly, she’d stuck around in piltover; but then again, her asshole uncle was on his deathbed, so her excuses for remaining topside had gotten flimsier as the years went on. a dichotomy, considering the fit she had thrown when he had wrested her from the undercity in the first place—she’d fled him for a reason, but logic was never a strength of his.

with her ex-girlfriend in a fight ring, and her childhood best friend facilitating martial law in piltover, arresting zaunites en masse on the manhunt for jinx, she took her leave.

that brought her back to square one—the dingy streets of zaun.

much to her chagrin, her five year absence had rendered her previous residence (it was a shack, actually) desolate, ransacked. that also meant that they’d taken marcel. that pissed her off.

you were a zaunite; and as things went down there, you worked for a crime boss—thalassa bloodhorn—yes, her name as quite on par with her profession. therefore, as a glorified minion, you were expendable.

“i’m going to ask you one more time, dipshit.” ottoline mused, a uncannily serene expression gracing her face, at odds with the wry grin twisting her lips, or the disgruntled brown waves framing her face as she dangled the chair you were tied to over the edge of the roof.

jade-adorned fingers gripped the chair’s weathered wood with deceptive ease. said chair was on two back legs—if she felt cheeky and let go, she could send you plummeting onto a passerby; or an enforcer, if you were unfortunate.

“i know your sweetheart of a boss had an obsession with marcel. so, if you want to keep your pretty skull intact, you’ll stop lying, and tell me where he is.” to you, she smelled distractingly of roses and the sea, opposed to the arcid smog in the air. all this over her mechanical fox. it was admirable, really.