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am I tripping or is Arcane!Mel's 3D model more lamblike than Noxus!Mel's,,, like something about her eyes in the mv kept bugging me tf out and I can't tell what it was but I could swear it's there

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This is probably unwarranted, but consider this: Jinx's drawing skills make me think that she didn't exactly have any good visual recollections of Isha either. Her hands are too violent, too crude, too tired; too lost in its languid motion, and too unstable every time she tries to capture the likeness in a physical image. It doesn't matter; it always comes out wrong. Left out like a scratch on the page. Or a woollen doll torn to pieces. Even the memory of her is blurred out, so much just like Vi's used to be before they reunited. And that's just it. That's the fucking problem.

There's no voice, no face—nothing. Just the remnants of old rubbish fancies lying around at the hideout, and the vague face of a little girl who loved her as much as she was loved in turn.

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Nalyë úvanima!

PAIRING: Jinx & Sauron

TAGS: Isekai and Transmigration, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, Modern Character in Middle Earth, Dimension Travel, Magic and Science, Angband, Orc Culture, Worldbuilding, Mental Health Issues

Nalyë úvanima!

She goes out in a shimmer of pink and blue, she wrenches herself from that wicked cycle, she forces down the killing blow—and the joke lands. The punchline comes. Her self-titled ending is nothing special: a sweet thanks, a silent parting; the only mercy a curse may see. The audience recoils, and the jester laughs. Finally, the curtains fall. The lone actor bows. Then people begin searching for that single, lost note, clapping and crying, and the star shines before the odd reverence of a dark stage. And when she thinks all is done and gone—well. The show must go on. (Over and over and over again.) Not forever, but for now. Naturally, everything goes as well as a fool put and prettied on a stick. ❈ [Into fire she falls, and from fire she breathes anew.]

OP'S NOTE:

I could not, for the life of me, decide which fandom I wanted to focus on. Why not have a two-in-one? Anyway, I've put out two other MGiME fics in the series, though they're noticeably longer than this one so far. Nalyë úvanima! is the shortest and fastest piece due to me cutting down on myself. It's focused more on worldbuilding than anything else, specifically regarding how I envision Sauron and Angband.

ok random as hell but would y'all read a Jinx dimension travel fic set in Middle-earth

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Jinx falls into fire and forgiveness.

It’s an instinctive strike, the lunge at the gauntlet—one last measure of good intentions that she tried to make count. An act of saving that someone might remember her by. The very thing that she should’ve been able to do from the very start. What a funny feeling, that. It doesn’t even hurt. Even as her knuckles rammed into the crystal compartment and the weight was dragged down with her; even as the familiar, heavy presence of the wolf tugged at her waist; even as their falling speed caused the wind to sting against tired eyes and open cuts. She feels nothing.

She doesn’t hear Vi scream, not really. Oh, it’s there. But the sound is muted, almost silent. Blanked-out. A headache waiting to hurt. Ringing in the thick haze of a selfish calm that only the dying could imagine. Underwater. Clogged in her ears, wrapped around her head, all three of their voices dimming the further down the tower she and the beast went.

Then, for a moment, just a moment, the world stills.

It’s nice.

Painful, but nice.

(No laughter in her head, no images inside her mind. Just this. Only this.)

Her sister’s desperate expression shifts into that of the hound’s guttural snarl. Flush rose hair covered in soot and grime fades to gold fur lined in black; a smoke-grey gaze tinged in blue exchanged for that tight, arcane tangle. White teeth like glass inch dangerously close to her face. Their closeness makes every detail sharp. It’s nothing at all like baring herself to an animal. Whatever Viktor had done to this body, this husk, this damn vessel—it wiped all the traits of a monster clean. It isn’t anything like the time he—Warwick—attacked her in Stillwater. No trails of saliva, no sign of breathing, no sign of hunger or vengeance or survival. It’s just that. He just is. Lifeless—and yet perfect. A most wonderful machine.

It makes her stomach twist. Something like half-grief and half-relief coils around the muscles where he digs his claws into. Her hand drifts to his face. She can’t tell why she does so. Maybe it’s out of sentiment; maybe it’s out of desperation. A final lunge at a farewell countlessly lost to them. But it’s a well-worn move, she supposed: the motions in perfect synchrony with how Vi used to hold her—both in their childhood, before they’d thrown themselves to the fires; and during their reunion, before the remnants of Powder wasted herself on that blasted bullet-ridden bridge. Fingers draped across a cheek. Palms forged in violence clamped down by fictive psalms of peace.

She reaches out; she touches him—and she tests if Warwick is still warm, hoping even beyond all broken hopes that for a second Vander might yet return. He doesn’t. Not quite so. His eyes—that fucking muddle of all things natural and unnatural—show her everything. A thousand truths and a million more possible realities. Cries of joy and delusions of contentment. Timelines branching out like veins aching in pipe dreams and powder blue. The biddings of a man-made god crushed into the reflection of one mere soul.

Despite it all, she smiles.

It’s a soft thing. Easy to give. Unstrained, so very different from the old ones she always painted on. There’s no mocking edge to it, no deprecating tilt, no nonchalant stretch—nothing at all and no one compared to the character she played up and lived as. The cracked-out, neon-bright grin is missing; the erratic shifts pulverised into off space.

Down, down, down the blue—rain and river water mixing into one; the crackle of the crystal twinkling above a lowered body.

Slowly, surely, the silly girl smiles.

The further down the tower they went, the sharper it became. The more daring.

He isn’t attacking. He has her in his grasp, but he isn’t tearing her to shreds.

It’s in that quick strike of time Jinx knows, Powder knows: maybe a part of him was still in there somewhere.

Acknowledging the fact that she can’t save him, that all these precious seconds are good for is the pull of his mass with hers, as the two of them could never escape. Dipping her heart into the slim chance that she can sight his kindness one more time. Thinking that, if she plucked out each individual follicle and peeled back the grain, then she would see Dad: only asleep underneath those crystal-coloured tears, or better yet, trapped—even despite all odds, even despite all their grievances. Feigning an idea where, somehow, in some way, he wasn’t going to let go so easily—and not because it’s what the beast demanded of him, but because the man who called himself Vander remained, because the father she’d missed still squirmed beneath that skin of metal and magic.

He’s still there. He’s still there.

And that was enough.

(It’s easy to pretend, even now.)

This is the one thing she can have for herself.

So, she takes the monkey bomb from her belt, and she finishes what they started in that little corner by those silver cells.

(Sleep at last.)

Are you watching, Dad?

She only hopes he can be proud that she made this choice.

Jinx falls into fire and forgiveness—

—and finally, finally, finally—

—the curse is lifted.

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ok random as hell but would y'all read a Jinx dimension travel fic set in Middle-earth

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Isha gets no burial.

There's no time.

Isha was dead, that was certain; but Vi isn't. Her sister got knocked off her feet, pulled down with her as the explosion took off. Bleeding and disoriented, but alive. Vi still lingered with her, as she always had; the chip on her shoulder that refused to be reshaped even past the stinging cuts and jagged skin. That's why she leaves her in the cell, that's why she throws away the keys. Beyond the last consideration she might give her, it was also the last petty thing she could do. Some clawing irony, some desperate chuckle.

It's the curse of being the elder sister, she thinks, shepherds of the greatest failures.

Isha doesn't get tended to.

The girl gets left there, imprinted onto dead soil; and Jinx doesn't get the mercy of knowing whether the flesh was disintegrated into dust or merely trampled beneath the uncaring feet of loyal soldiers. If the kid got the kindness of a quick flare of blinding light, burning her dry; or the cruelty of a snapped neck beneath a bigger beast's weight. She couldn't even tell if there was a corpse at all.

Not even the hideout suffices as a shrine. There's a dent in the earth there, a tiny bit where the blade of the fan digs in just right. But it's not enough. It's too fucking small for someone who possessed that big of a heart. Too dark, too damp, and too damn caged-in for the wild little rabbit that the child had been. It's not enough. It's not fucking enough. None of it is. Not even as she torches the bar and all what's left of goodness inside it.

There isn't really anyone to remember the kid. Maybe Vi, maybe Sevika, maybe Ekko, maybe even Caitlyn. A sister, a mother, a lover, and an enemy. Four people in the present for the four people she'd killed that night at the warehouse. Mylo, Claggor, Vander, Powder.

Powder. Heh. Fuckin' Powder.

That's the last laugh she gets; thinking about it while she watches the entire thing burn down into ashes. Into grey fog. Into powder. Back to the start. Back to where everything began. To rain and river water. To dust and fire.

She stares at the bomb.

Listless. Unfeeling.

Tired.

(Bunnies love to bleed in the wild, don't they? There are no happy endings for these kinds of creatures. Dirty, rabid, and uncared-for. That's just the way it is. That's the way it's always been. That's the way it'll be, even long after everything ends.)

Isha gets no burial.

Why should Jinx give herself the kindness of one?

She calls out to the void for one last time. Trying to see if there might yet be anything down there that could still give her a piece of something to live for. A glimpse of a face in the black drop. A giggle from the past. A flash of blue or orange or pink. Nothing. Of course it doesn't come. She knows it, accepted it, made peace with it. But still. Something. Anything. No. Nothing. Just nothing. Only silence. Only her failure. Only the faint whisper of a wind that shouldn’t be there and the heavy coating of dust on the rocks.

The quiet is almost ritualistic, a part of her yet resisting: wondering that perhaps, if she stared into the nothingness hard enough, the nothingness will stare back. She'd done it before. She'd carved demons into the stone. Why should this be any different? It's almost charming, really, how even now she tries to pull at a heart that's already stopped bleeding. She’s a fucking trickster. She can pull off the joke again. Only…well. Only this time, it doesn’t come. Oh, her laughter is there—it spills out, again and again and again. But it lacks that mocking edge to it; the inward sneer of Jinx that so often accompanied each of her own self-insults.

Everything falls flat.

There's nothing anymore. It's just fucking nothing.

Plain, cutting silence.

Her finger traces the pin.

There's no burial. There was no time. Not enough of it. But she'd known it then, though, way before they even hopped down to the slums: the whole thing had been a last rite for her. An ode to the creature that named itself Powder. A slowed ignition with just enough sputters and pauses to make the ending burn brighter. She repeats it to herself: there was no time. Oh, trust, there had been a lot of it. She'd just turned to the other side so as not to face the reality that she’d merely borrowed some and intentionally forgot to pay her dues.

The sickest part of her thinks that maybe the girl understood. It was better like this. It should have been better like this. No body, no memory. No voice, no burden. Merely a quiet thanks.

The crystal warms the steel beneath her skin.

She lets out a breath.

Isha gets no burial.

(Jinx won't even pretend to deserve one.)

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as a long-haired girly, you cannot imagine the utter fucking relief I felt when Jinx cut her hair off,,,,, like yes angst the house down boots but fresh air on your neck and less weight on your head is so worth it

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okay fr how hard does Vi have to punch that both Jinx and Isha immediately bleed through their noses jeezus

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it's the way that Silco went from lil' punk twink baddie to classy 40s mob dad that really gets me goin' all meow meow y'know

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https://www.instagram.com/reel/DC5JmlAzA6s/?igsh=emVnbTZ6MGxsYTcy

QUEEN NEVER CRY

I'M FUCKING CACKLINGGG

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so has someone made the queen never cry meme with Mel and Ambessa yet

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idk if this has been pointed out but I just realised that the slot where Jinx loads the hexcrystal into Zapper is the same hole that Caitlyn's hexrifle left in the Act 1 showdown

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every time I struggle to write something geography-related for Zaun, I just imagine those little ditches in mountains you see in Minecraft that get flooded with water if you destroy the wrong blocks

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am I tripping or is Steb's only voiceline the scream he makes when he's saving Maddie in Ep1

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someone make an AU where the current timeline fails again but this time Viktor passes on the mantle of the 'Mage' to Jayce

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I think the cycle only ends when you find the will to walk away.

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every time I watch the fight at the Hexgate I scream because shit that is six of the champions in one scene