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Lest turns her head up slightly, taking a light sniff of the skies. It makes the soft fur at the nape of her neck and down her spine stand stiff.
She knows that smell anywhere and it makes her gut churn.
War.
One of her ears twitched. A crowd of people is approaching. She curls further into herself, ducking in the shadows of Piltover's main Council Hall building.
War is coming. To Piltover's shores undoubtedly.
She doesn't know when or who the opposing forces may be, but she recognizes the signs. Thinly veiled business for hushed whispers to roll in a soft undercurrent. Regardless of location in Runeterra, they are all the same.
That pattern of what plagued her kind but a generation ago all the way in Ionia; that war which forced her family and others to flee to someplace where they could feel protected.
Lest was incredibly young at the time, but a small girl when travesty struck. Haunting memories branded in her brain and behind her eyes to never forget.
From the time of war and loss decades ago, the wounds around her heart eventually began to scar over and heal.
Heal as much as they could, anyways.
For as much as a drifter like her could form roots, Piltover has become her home.
Lest has no desire to flee again.
She cannot bare the thought.
Over the course of several days, she does what she did best and waits and listens. In the shadows she resides trying to piece together just what this opposing force would bring.
The council never says anything; they are remarkably good about shielding the greater public from any worries.
But Lest knows better. Her senses have hardly ever led her astray.
Whatever this is, it's too big for Piltover alone. She can smell it.
In the cover of the night, Lest melts into the shadows. Perhaps this was a reach, but if there was something she can do, she would do it.
She had abandoned most of her more telling attire for her trip, in favor of a simplistic hood and dress. There was no need to draw unnecessary attention by gaudy accessories.
Getting into trouble over costly fabric will not be her undoing.
Even in the late hours, Lest notices several bands of little kids, running around making entertainment for themselves. She doesn't need to consider where their parents could be or if there was any concern over their well-being.
A few other indeterminable figures loiter the streets in questionable condition. Some move with purpose, others seemingly out because they simply have nowhere else to be.
Down the unnamed streets, several areas are damp; decorated with puddles large and small. It has been several days since it last rained in Zaun, but it was stubborn to cling onto the moisture it brought.
She courteously dodges the ones she could, moving discretely until she found her location of interest.
She stops, drawn to the bright neon overhead sign flickering a few times in no ascertainable rhythm. She made it.
The Last Drop.
Even from the outside she can tell it is one of, if not, the prominent place to gather. A couple pockets of rowdy groups keep it lively, but more of the residents tend to keep to themselves.
Smoothly, Lest slips somewhat comfortably in a tight alleyway. She needs to gather her bearings. After this there was no going back. She had only one shot and she wasn't going to fuck this up.
For a moment she lets herself look to the sky. She thought the moon looked surprisingly beautiful from here. A soft smile graces her face. Absolutely stunning.
When the clamoring inside starts to die down, Lest tightens the scarf around her head and slips inside. She isn't garnering any heightened interest, likely due to her more plain attire and the crowd's intoxicated state thanks to substances unknown to her. That is a good sign.
She is still far from relaxing, choosing to not take a seat at the bar, exactly. Rather, she leans against the bar table, resting an elbow on it. The wooden surface has been worn down over the years, with more than a few scratches buried deep. She busies one of her claws in a groove. The sound is rhythmic, reverberating through the wood and her fingers.
The man is cleaning a glass with a worn down rag. The size of his hands wrapped around the glass make a whiskey glass look like a shot glass. "A new face," he says simply.
Her scratching stops. Amber eyes flicker up to soft blues. "Hmm," she says coyly.
"Well, welcome to The Last Drop." He plays with the glass before putting it away. "What would you like to drink?"
Cat-like eyes dart to her sides in suspicion. "My interests… they lie in something else. Someone else." She eyes the the man up and down.
Eyes widened in surprise.
"Vander, Hound of the Underground." It is not a question, for she already knows the truth.
He chuckles dryly. "That's a name I haven't heard in a long time." Vander extracts a pipe tucked somewhere in his pants just outside Lest's field of vision. A couple courtesy taps before slipping the bit between his lips. A match is lit, igniting what's held in the bowl and he draws a long breath. Smoke pours out through his nose and the gaps between his lips with a heavy exhale.
"If you're looking for them, try somewhere else," he finally says. Over the years as much as he wanted to believe he could bury it, the past will always be there chasing him. A ghost bound to his shadow. Vander hung up the gloves years back in favor of diplomacy and reputation driving his decisions. Protection not through violence.
Lest's face darkens under the shadows of the overhead lights. "I'm afraid that's not an option."
Vander stays silent, so she continues.
"Something is coming to Piltover. Something big. You're the only one who can help." She shudders an exhale through gritted teeth. She fishes out a pipe of her own and follows Vander's lead.
At the luminous purple glow and expelled smoke, his eyes narrow and brows set low.
"Topsiders are none of our concern. Or have you forgotten your history?"
She had a feeling this would happen. Ever since The Day of Ash, the schism between cities has grown ever wider. Enforcers, gangs, crime… The people of Zaun only kept their heads low, for risk at being in the Enforcers' lines of sight and the people of Piltover would go about their days, ignorant to their golden-dripped privilege.
"You don't think what would happen to Piltover wouldn't come here? That once that city is razed to ashes, pillaged and ruined for all it's worth, the people here won't suffer, too?"
"Topsiders can just as much turn around and take us out. We are nothing more than the roaches they'd step on."
"Whether you like it or not, only a united front will save us," Lest counters. "I know this, and you know this, too." Another draw from her pipe. With purple smoke lingering, enveloping the space between them, Lest spins the pipe around for Vander.
Not breaking her gaze once the smoke clears, Vander takes it gently, strong fingers brushing hers. Watching her tongue peek between perfectly painted lips, wetting her waterline, he takes a long draw.
It tastes of her and the world steadies to something more clear.