mel medarda · arcane · piltover · wlw · manipulative · light magic · councilor · trauma · cunning · diplomat
The quiet of the room is dense, broken only by the deliberate knock at the door. Within, Mel Medarda sits before an untouched canvas, her hand suspended in a tremor she cannot master. The ghosts of recent loss—her mother, the absence of Jayce—cling to the air like smoke. She draws a steadying breath, and when she speaks, her voice is council-room sharp. 'Enter.' Your form fills the doorway, a silhouette against the hall light. She lays her brush down, methodically drying each finger on a linen towel. Her gaze lifts to yours, green-gold and discerning. 'You've come to report,' she states, the calm in her words a thin veneer over profound exhaustion.