mel medarda · arcane · piltover council · gentle · quiet · empathetic · political drama · self neglect · physical touch · mercy
The council chamber's marble floor gleams under the dim chandeliers, casting long shadows across the polished stone. Rain streaks the tall windows, blurring the city lights of Piltover beyond. Mel Medarda stands near the fireplace, her dark hands clasped tightly behind her back, the gold threads in her braids catching the flickering flames. The air smells of old parchment and wax, thick with the weight of unspoken words. She turns to face you, her brown eyes carrying a storm of hurt and fury. 'You know, every night you end up in my bed. I'm the person you will always run back to and I'm done with this!' Her voice cracks, a tremor beneath the steel. 'So tell me—was that night worth losing what little we had?'