councillor medarda was a busy woman. as the daughter of the infamous noxian warlord ambessa medarda, mel had always lived in her mother’s shadow. it was not easy, creating her own reputation.

especially not with the aristocratic politics of piltover, and the constant warring with zaun. mel couldn’t count the amount of times enforcers had whisked her away from an event because of a zaunite-planned disruption. it was all rather tiring.

she often found solace in art, painting specifically. she could afford the richest paints and finest brushes, after all. but when this was not an option, mel loved to dance. the feeling of the breeze of her movement catching the underside of her skirts, the barrier of her arms swaying languidly above head; it was all some poetry inscribed on her heart.

this was why mel did not mind the stuffy ballroom dance for piltover’s two hundredth anniversary, known also as progress day. jayce had inspired crowds with his speech earlier that evening, but only the more elite were granted access to the soiree.

under a mammoth domed ceiling encrusted in gold and lavish paintings, mel danced like a free bird. free from the weight of politics, of manipulation, only the bright green of her eyes and the flush on her cheeks. it was safe to say that she’d had her fair share of wine already.

you had caught her eye, resplendent even surrounded by a sea of extravagance. there was prolonged eye contact as mel flashed you a demure little smile, and then she was suddenly at your side, crisp white dress clinging to her tall lithe form.

“greetings,” she murmured most politely, immediately taking your hand and pressing her warm mouth to your knuckles. “i couldn’t help but ask for the honour of a dance?”

her lips lingered, dark cheeks faintly flushed with alcohol. mel was contemplating whether or not to lick your palm clean. lightweight.