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The Vexed Blades	By : Major_Nuker Category: +G through L > League of Legends Views: 6510 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own League of Legends or any characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Vexed Blades
- 1
The Vexed Blades
A Fan Fiction Featuring Fiora Laurent and Katarina Du Couteau
By Major Nuker

Chapter 1

Flashes of steel and the ring of blades colliding echoed throughout the halls. House Laurent's dueling area was busy today with the blood and sweat of its many trainees and retainers. Chief among these, overseeing the few cousins present with an air of supposed superiority as she looked for any contenders or capable duelists, was the daughter of the House, Fiora Laurent.
She sat on a perched chair flanked by large red feathers above the armrests, sipping on a sweet red wine. Fiora looked disinterested as her cousins and several handpicked duelists parried blows with their House Laurent rapiers, or their own weapons and gear. The House never placed its own famed garb into the hands of those who preferred their own.
While all were gaudy in their own fashion, a few memorable ones stood out in the clamor. Rolfe, from another family, wore the typical Demacian cape and garb as was custom, a yellow seal emblazoned on the blade itself so that when he lashed or struck, all that was seen was a curiously golden hue. Opposite him, a Noxian runaway, Morclave, held fast, mimicking some of Fiora's own style, matching Rolfe's powerful, swift strokes with sidesteps and body movement to parry.
She swished her wine, thinking to herself in her muddled Western Valoran accent. Such pitiful practice, even for these two. Rolfe's power will wind him, and Morclave, he moves too slowly. She sighed to herself as she placed her wine on a table beside the ornate House Laurent 'Overseer' seat. The sun cast a glare through the windows down onto the remade ballroom's floor, and the occasional shine of glinting weapons danced on the Demacian banners placed upon the walls. A beautiful sight, Fiora thought, as she stepped down and walked through the duelists to retrieve her own rapier.
The greenest of them stopped momentarily to watch her before getting smacked by a trainer on the flat edge of a blade, while those more experienced danced out of her way to their opponent's favor. Rolfe and Morclave, however, did not move from their central position. Rolfe's lashes were met with the ring of steel as the other duelist weaved around him.
Fiora stepped between the two.
At first they did not notice the up and coming duelist. It was on Rolfe's lunge that Fiora entered his peripheral vision.
Fiora, looking ahead, still saw his feet and judged the blade smartly. Her head turned to look at him as it passed by her left ear, and in a moment the din and clamor of the hall was silenced as a lock of her hair gently wafted to the floor. Rolfe had caught her eye and sullied himself by striking blindly at the one opponent. Fiora's eyes were afire when Rolfe bent the knee and asked for pardon.
“M-my Lady F-fiora, please, I did not realize...” he pleaded, knowing the consequence for cutting a superior.
Fiora looked down on him with a downcast gaze. Such a blind one, this Rolfe of Demacia. He only sees what lies ahead of him. “Stand, Rolfe of House Locke,” she said in a dreadful whisper, letting the room gawk at the slant. She turned as he slowly got to his face, making to walk to her rapier, before lashing out at him with a backhanded slap. Her glove was already off her hand, seemingly instantly.
“You are blind, Rolfe. You will never be a great duelist if you cannot fight, that is true enough. But his allies will gut you if you fail to see the blades at your back in a real battle,” she hissed, her accent heavy. “SWORD!” she called, and her rapier was rushed to her by a smaller boy as she pulled her glove taught on her hand once again.
“Morclave, all of you, step back. Raise your sword hand Rolfe.” He did as he was commanded. She bowed, and he followed. As she rose, hands out, she beckoned him. “Begin.”
This time he was hesitant, his movements shaky and unrefined. Finally, after a tentative moment, he lunged. Whipping her rapier, Fiora cut his cheek, removed the clasps on his cloak so that it fell to the floor, and hooked his handle to disarm him. She tossed the yellow Demacian sword to the side, and it slid across the tile in a horrifying screech, grating like a crying child ripped from its mother. Rolfe shed a tear, his honor and family mantle falling to the floor as his cheek slowly bled from the gash. The room was quiet.
“Let the mark be a lesson...your bruised honor a reminder of your duty to yourself. I will not stand for blind duelists in this House, and neither will my father. Now pick up the pieces of your past and start your disciplines anew,” she stated, as calm as the eye in a storm.
Fiora glided from the room, the tassels on her armor catching the sunlight and dashing a ray upon the wall. She had work to attend to.

Tonight there was to be a grand feast followed by a duel between her father and a member of another House. More for show than a serious matter, Fiora could see the hastened tension among the cooks and maids as they hurriedly cleaned the dining room. A long, glimmering table sat at the center, with no less than 20 seats along its sides. Capped at the tip, facing the dueling ring, sat a chair that nearly matched the 'Overseer' chair in the practice room. Draped over the door was a blue and yellow banner with the sigil of House Laurent, a red rapier glinting white, and opposite it the other sigil, a stag on brown with bladed antlers. House Garland, Fiora thought to herself, noting the inclusion of venison and other forest meats on the table alongside silver platters with pig's head, apples, pears and various wines.
In some time Fiora was joined by her mother and other members of the house, including Rolfe and the training duelists. Rolfe's cloak was reattatched, his gash left open, the blood on his cheek slowly drying. His depressed demeanor was a welcome sight to her, showing he'd learned his lesson. Perhaps he had potential after all.
Fiora sat at the end of the table facing her father's chair, her mother taking a quiet seat next to where he would be sat. When he finally entered, followed by a few retainer Bladesmen (esteemed duelists) and his guest, Lord Garland, he demanded a toast to the evening's events. “May our blades be swift and our cunning even swifter,” he mused, handing a chalice to Lord Garland fringed with purple garnets as he took his own drink on the table and drank. The rest of the evening continued simply, high talk of trade agreements between several nations, the state of the Houses, the upcoming duel, and the superb choice in food. It was all very typical.
When all had their fill, Lord Laurent guided the guests into the dueling area. By now, night had fallen and moonlight took the place of sunlight. The banners flapped against the walls weakly, a night breeze passing through the room. Fiora's father was feeling particularly boastful.
“Garland if you manage to best me tonight, then I am no man, HAR,” he laughed as he tested the weight of his rapier. Garland replied sleepily. “Well, if Laurent wine has anything to say about it, I may fall asleep waiting for you to beat me,” he replied, as his own retainers jeered loudly.
“Fiora, my dear, take the Overseer's seat, and watch your father win tonight,” he bellowed confidently before stalking into the center. Lord Garland paused to bow to her, kissing her hand before he walked to his place. Fiora smiled, as was custom. Such disgusting things, these men, she thought silently.
The duel was a wonderful thing, her father using his strong sword arm to his advantage as he pushed Garland around the room. Garland seemed to be on the backfoot the entire match, his parries lazy and dulled.
Surely this isn't the Garland I've heard of, the one who beat some of the Crownguard in single combat?
Before long, Garland's blade was dipping, her father standing straight, one arm behind his back, sword straightened forward. The crowd, who had been cheering on her father, grew silent.
“I concede. Truly, wine has had the best of me. Condolences to my House, for I am not my best tonight,” he whispered, before slinking to the floor. His personal retainers rushed to him quickly. At first, Fiora thought perhaps he had passed out drunkenly, but the solemn looks on the Garland Bladesmen told her otherwise. Despite herself, she let her eyes grow wide and jump to her father when a Garland sat back and cried to the room as a whole. “Our Lord Garland...” he whimpered, holding back tears, “he is dead!”

That night the Garlands were sent on their way home but the events of the evening tore at Fiora. He was complaining about the wine...could me father have...no, that is impossible, she thought to herself as she lay in her chambers, the silky satin covering her figure. She knew that in the days to come there would be questions, many questions about what had happened. But there was no way to tell if Garland had indeed been given some drug or if he had simply died of unusual causes.
Fiora turned in her bed, her long legs rubbing against each other. She tried to rest her doubts, but they left her unable to sleep. Instead she deigned to wander the halls, perhaps to check the dining room. There had to have been some reason behind it all. My father isn't the type to cheat, she told herself, wanting to believe his honesty. After all, he'd dueled and won against many opponents. He must have bested them all. Why would he ever turn on his own honor?
Fiora's rapier bounced against her hips, attached to a belt at her waist. She walked barefoot toward the dining room, a chill breeze gently nipping at her chest. Crossing her arms seemed to help.
It was so quiet in House Laurent at night. Only the distant scurrying of a mouse betrayed the life in the place. The banners leading to the dining hall loomed sadly above, as if they knew what had happened that night. Our wine is famed for its kick but...she shook her head and sighed.
The table was cleaned, bare after the feast that had filled it from end to end. Only the glasses remained, among them the garnet cup Lord Garland has drank from. Fiora walked to her father's chair and looked at the cup, but it was empty and seemingly spotless. If it had been the wine, she had no way to tell. She leaned against the table, holding the chalice in her hand when she heard footsteps behind her. Turning with a hand on her blade, she sighed in relief when she saw it was her mother. It seemed she too couldn't sleep. Fiora put the chalice down softly.
“Fiora, dahling, go back to bed. There's nothing to do here.” she consoled, before placing a hand on Fiora's shoulder. “I'm certain is was just one of those many tragedies, the ones we will always wonder over. It's best you simply forget and rest for tomorrow.”
Fiora could see a look in her mother's eyes that told her things wouldn't be the same. There would be questions about the legitimacy of her father's title, of House Laurent as a place for duelists. She relented, squeezing her mother's hand softly, before going back to her chambers. It was going to be a tough several weeks, until the memory of Lord Garland's death faded away.

But the Garlands would not forget. Within a fortnight, another feast had been planned and the cooks and maids were busy about the kitchen again. A different House, another duel. It was as if nothing had happened. There were whispers, Fiora knew, that the Garlands had convinced House Lyon to treat with them. She could guess why.
Yet she found herself seated again at the table, waiting for her father to enter with the guests. The white lion sigil of their house displayed this time instead of the Garland stag. So many Houses in Demacia, she wondered to herself, but is there a single capable duelist able to best me in them? Any besides my own father? Truly, she had not had a challenge in a long time.
Her muses were broken, as was the chatter at the table, when a roar erupted from the kitchens. “You are a fiend Lord Laurent! A traitor to the honor of dueling!” she heard, before she stood and rushed to the kitchens. I knew this would happen; people would be so displeased with the death of the Garlands. Surely my father can...
But her thoughts, and her heart, stopped when she reached the doorway and looked on. For the first time she felt raw, seething anger at her own father in place of honorable admiration. Because in his hand was not a blade, or a wine bottle, but a small stoppered beaker filled with a clear liquid. And on the central cookery was the garnet chalice, half filled with red wine.
Lord Lyon reeled around to face Fiora. “The noted duelist Fiora Laurent. Look, look at what your House has been built upon,” the man huffed, his face beet red, “a dishonest father who poisons his opponents.” Lyon turned to her father. “You killed Lord Garland with that fickle liquor. You killed an honorable man. I should cut you here and now...” he began, but Fiora rested a hand on him.
“I will handle my father, Lord Lyon. And I believe in light of these proceedings, you and your retainers should leave House Laurent. We have business to attend to,” she stated coolly, and Lord Lyon could see a dangerous kindling in her eyes, a fire that matched her hair. He bowed at her, and left the room. Soon after, the kitchen and dining hall had been emptied, and she was left with Lord Laurent. He placed the beaker down on a shelf and sighed.
“My darling daughter,” he began, softly, “there comes a time when every duelist loses their touch. I simply didn't want to lose mine. I am sorry.” He stifled a tear, a weak gesture.
This man is not my father anymore, she thought inwardly. “All of my honor, our House's honor, has been thrown away. You are a weak fool, Franc, for what you have done to your family.” Fiora brandished her rapier. “You will relinquish House Laurent to me through an honest bout, to regain the smallest portion of what you've thrown away. I give you this chance, not because I cannot see you without any honor left, but because I must show mine by beating you myself. We begin at sunrise on the morrow.”
Fiora left the kitchen, and prepared herself in her chambers. She did not sleep, instead choosing to practice her steps, the swoosh of her sword the only sound in the house as she lunged, parried and danced around an imaginary opponent far faster and stronger than her. When the first glint of the sun came over the horizon, she left her room and entered the dueling ring.
The entire House, weary of the events of the past few days, sat silently. All their hopes and dreams lay on Fiora being able to reclaim the lost dignity and respect her father had so selfishly tossed aside. For his part, Franc Laurent was clad in his very best and looked stoically prepared. Perhaps there may be a shred of his old self left. I must cut out the rest.
She addressed the spectating House as she took her place in the center of the room. “Franc Laurent, what you have done is without reproach. I challenge you to a duel for the titles, deeds, and honor of House Laurent. You may accept readily, or have it forced upon you. This is the Laurent way.” she stated straightly and loudly so all could hear. There would be no question that she had offered him in customary fashion.
He straightened his shoulders and withdrew his rapier. “Until my blade arm weakens and you disarm me, or I cannot otherwise continue, my daughter, I accept. We may begin when you are ready.”
There were hushed whispers for just a moment before Fiora lunged at her father. He parried, the sickening grating noise of two edges meeting one another wailing out into the open space. Again and again she struck out at him, from below, above, from either side. The man moved slower than she remembered, but managed several ripostes. Fiora answered in tune, using his power against him as she redirected staggering slashes and lunges to position her own.
As the sun continued to rise, the duel sped on. Her father swung low. Parry. An attempt to disarm. Riposte. A flurry of blows on either side caused them to both backstep slightly. A thin line opened along her father's thumb and began to redden. A small lock of hair fell to the floor, red and black, her own. I must be quicker. I must dance. She dashed in as his eyes widened, a blur. Her footsteps were soundless. He lashed out. Cross parry...Riposte right...she thought, as the duel began to slow down. Leap strike left...a gash opened on his left shoulder as cotton, leather and feather parted...whirl right...like water the tassels that matched Fiora's were parted as she spun behind him, slashing widely, and another slice opened along his back...thrust upper left, disarm...the blade slipped from her father's hand, hanging in mid-air...forward swipe, dismount...with a final slash, she carved his chest open and kicked his legs out from under him, and time seemed to resume. Pieces of cloth and leather flew into the air, raining down on the floor as he fell. His blood sprayed her blade, the tip already crimson, the hilt now dabbled in it. His rapier shot in front of him, left, out of his reach as it skittered along the ground. Finally he landed, heaving, wide-eyed, but alive.
“The Blade Waltz,” she told him, as he smiled, and bled, and gave her House Laurent.

With her father recovering from the wounds she gave him Fiora had the House more or less to herself, and her mother had so far stayed hidden away in her chambers. She'd sent letters throughout the day to House Lyon, Garland and a dozen others as well as the Demacian Internal Affairs office explaining the situation; the duel, the title switch, and more, but leaving out the 'murder'. The last thing she wanted was for her father to be placed in jail with his wounds. The Houses would celebrate her mentality and quick action, but if she let the state take control in some way, she knew she may suffer more reprieves from the aristocracies.
Even with the new-found path she was on, Fiora felt lost. She had not intended to take control of House Laurent for many years, perhaps never. The fact that she was now sitting at its head, dealing with the Western Demacian aristocracy was an entirely new sensation. Unprepared...this is what it feels like...
She put down her quill and parchment and sat back. It was addressed to Noxus. She was unsure if she should send it. We have Noxians here, and we aren't directly tied to the Demacian Government. Even so, it serves no real purpose. They have no reason to be involved. A silent nod later she had stepped outside her chambers for the first time all day, her writing hand sore from so many letters. The halls looked clean as ever, and the maids she saw smiled at her. Even Rolfe, when she ran into him, seemed a bit brighter than usual. Perhaps this was for the best. Or so I hope. Alight with a passion for the future, everyone had been training fervently, determined to be a big name in the new era of the House. The conquering of honor, duty and discipline over hidden poisons and selfishness was the Laurent way, and they were all positively ecstatic. A trumpet blaring from the grounds outside, beyond the wine orchards, brought her attention. It was the distinct call of the Dauntless Vanguard. And it was a sign that the Demacian Government wanted clear involvement, or worse.
Several retainers rushed by her, clad in leather armor. She stepped quickly, but presentably, happy she had her traditional garb on. The crossed to the main door within a few minutes and a carriage with a small escort of knights pulled in out front. Her retainers opened the door, and Fiora had to stifle a gasp. She had not expected to see this particular Dauntless.
Garen, The Might of Demacia, stood in her doorway, his giant sword left in his carriage, where his men stood guard. Fiora pushed a bit of hair out of her face and walked forward to greet him. He IS large. But why come here...
Garen spoke first. “Fiora Laurent, the self-proclaimed 'Grand Duelist' and now head of House Laurent, or so I hear.” He paused for a moment. “It is my pleasure to meet you.”
Fiora bowed to the leader of the Dauntless Vanguard. “My title has yet to be taken from me, so I keep it, Garen, Might of Demacia. Please, please, come in. Doubtlessly you are tired, hungry and have questions. We can discuss things more comfortably in the dining hall,” she stated with an air of diplomacy, before leading him on. I may be able to ween something from him, so as not to be taken unawares.
“I take it you had a safe journey?” she began, tip-toeing, she knew, on dangerous ground.
“It was quiet enough. We in the Vanguard rarely find any accidental trouble.” he stated matter-of-factly.
“That is good to hear. It has been...a rough day. I'm certain you can understand.”
“I know good from bad, Fiora. And my arrival must certainly have been good.” he said, smiling down at her. Is he...flirting? No. He is here for other reasons. State business. She couldn't stop a bead of sweat forming on her brow, though. Garen seemed not to notice.
She took her seat at the head of the table and motioned for her retainers to close the dining room doors. Garen sat to her right, eyeing her rapier.
“I hear you defeated every opponent you've ever face with that blade. It seems small,” he said, and gave a light chuckle.
“It is how you use a blade, Garen, which I'm sure you realize.” She did not return the laugh.
“Yes. Of course,” he said, nodding. “I'm sure you know why I have come. King Jarvan was concerned for the well being of your House. I was nearby when I got the message. So here I sit, awaiting an explanation.” He crossed his arms, the large pauldrons on his shoulders jutting out as he did so.
“My father attempted to...lean things in his favor. It was not the Laurent way. I contested the House, and won an honest duel. As is our custom...so here I sit.” She finished, hoping he didn't want more details.
“And I approve. We were only concerned and wanted to be here in person to show our condolences for the situation. I'm certain is has tested you. Your hospitality has been quick and gracious, and yourself most forthcoming. I suppose I should thank you for that.” He stood and walked to the door, leaving Fiora bemused. He opened it and whispered something to a guard standing outside, who rushed off toward the main entrance. He turned back to Fiora. “As a token of our good will, King Jarvan has deemed to offer you a gift.” Smoothly, he strode back to his seat, but did not sit. “I do think you'll like it, Grand Duelist.”
Huffing and puffing the guard returned, carrying a chest. He placed on the table between them and Garen leaned over opening it. Fiora stood to see if this was a bargain, a true gift, or something else entirely. She was surprised to see a hat brim poking out, black with gold embroidery.
“It is an outfit meant for any true duelist. You need not wear it, but I believe it would suit you, Miss Laurent,” he said happily, as he pulled out a large black hat, with a wide, folded brim, like a captain's hat. He revealed the rest of the contents; a tight fitting bodice with white leather lapels and leather lattices that provided a place for not one, but two blades; a pair of tight, form fitting cloth leggings that matched the coloration of the hat; and an attachable trio of white tipped blue tassels, akin to her own. This is so wonderful, she thought, Garen has brought me a gift to show his respect for my actions. My honor remains intact.
“It is beautiful Garen...I am almost beside myself with words. You say the Jarvan himself sent this for me? While I'm curious if it fits...surely there's more here. What are you not telling me?” Her accent seemed to confuse Garen for briefly, and he paused before taking in a deep breath.
“There are no conditions, nor any tricks here, Miss Laurent. It is simply a gift of good will. Now, this has been a wonderful detour, and while I wouldn't miss a chance for a bout with the Grand Duelist herself in, no doubt, a tight fitting garb, I have more business to take care of nearby. If you will excuse me.” And with that, Garen left her shocked.
It truly is marvelous. The inlay, the color...it is truly Demacian and befitting House Laurent. It would do well to wear it, should I find the occasion. And that Garen...he is a handsome man, and strong. I wonder if he could be persuaded for a public duel, to 'test' my gift. It would be so..romantic.
“My Lady Fiora,” a voice at her door said, breaking her moment of zen. “There is a representative from...Noxus. We need your presence.”
“Very well, I will be out in short order,” she replied, before adding, “Send them to the dueling room. I think they'd like that, don't you?” she giggled. The steps leading away from her door prompted her to stand and retrieve her rapier, clasping the belt on her hips. Well, it's a good thing I didn't put on that outfit...so much blue might seem threatening. Last thing the House needs is an assassin trying to kill its Lady.
It was late in the eve as Fiora head toward the dueling room, her boots sounding loudly as she walked. She could hear light talking coming from the open space, echoing down the hall toward her. Rolfe and Morclave were standing near the door.
“My Lady, I would not treat with Noxus, it is a bad political move. Promise them nothing, and I assure you they will not return,” whined Morclave, clearly not at all pleased by the presence of a Noxian. “Scared they'll take you away, Morclave? I promise you, you are under my protection,” she assured him, and he bowed before leaving. “What of you Rolfe? More fears?”
“I simply wish the best for House Laurent. Do as you wish. If you want me to come in with you, I would be thankful, my Lady.” He seemed genuinely sincere with his suggestion. Her lesson had sharpened his tongue and attitude considerably.
“If you would have me do as I wish, then leave me Rolfe. If the Grand Duelist cannot protect herself, then I am not worthy of the title.” Rolfe bowed deeply, and took his leave of the situation.
I certainly hope I am right...Noxus can be most tricky, especially if they smell weakness. She reasoned that was their purpose here, to test the waters of House Laurent, and to see if their own Noxians were in the right hands.
Fiora Laurent eased open the door, and was surprised at who she saw. Two incredible warriors with the blade in one day...I must be getting popular, she laughed to herself as she stared at Katarina Du Couteau, The Sinister Blade.

This Noxian...the situation is serious. She deals in death, not diplomacy. The beautiful black widow of Noxus...
“If you are here to kill me, Du Couteau, you may find more than you expect,” Fiora said coolly as she closed the door behind her. When she turned a tossed knife caught her eye, and if her rapier had not been out to parry it, she would have been skewered.
“Grand Duelist indeed,” Katarina whispered into the chill evening air, “but are you truly strong enough to train our Noxians?” she said, from behind.
Fiora whirled around, her blade up, but Katarina was already inside her defenses. The girl with the scar was inches from Fiora, and as she leaned in, Fiora could smell the slightest hint of a Noxian perfume. The girl was dangerously close, and could kill with a single stroke. Instead Fiora felt one of the larger, traditional blades between her knees, slowly moving upwards. She means to kill me in my own home...Fiora realized, as the blade pressed between her thighs. But the stroke never came.
Katarina laughed. “You look nervous, Duelist. Could I possibly be scaring you?” The whisper sent shivers down her spine, Katarina's breath breezing over her exposed neck and ear. The girl tightened the gap and put her other arm around Fiora. When she turned, Katarina nipped her ear and disappeared, her laugh echoing.
“What do you want.” Fiora was nervous, but the danger here, a real danger, stirred her lust for dueling. “You say you must be certain I am strong.” There was no answer in the darkness as Fiora peered around. She wants to duel me, for a certainty. She mused at the romantic nature of it. A dance with the devil...how beautiful.
Finally, a reply reached her ears. “Well, if the Grand Duelist saw the need, I might see the fun in a little fight. After all, violence solves everything,” Katarina said, from the center of the room. And there she stood, clad in her tight leather armor, a slew of throwing knives about her belt, holding her two favored cutting blades, one in each hand. She seemed to sway with the words.
By now, Fiora's worry was gone. A duel she would happily participate in. “Very well, Du Couteau. I have heard of you skill with not just one, but many blades. I can see no better opponent than you in this room, so I happily accept,” she said confidently, striding into the center of the room.
Katarina flipped her scarlet hair and laughed, eerily loud. “Then, Miss Laurent, when you are ready,” she said, and bowed deeply. Fiora followed suit, and then lunged.
It was one thing to parry a single blade, another thing to outmaneuver an opponent, but fighting someone who could attack behind you, in front of you, or from distance was a totally new and challenging affair. Despite herself, Fiora laughed as she blocked a blow from behind. Katarina had disappeared again, only to strike Fiora where she had no defense. Whirling after the block, Fiora faced Katarina again, lunging and striking when appropriate. The Sinister Blade's eyes seemed to dance in the growing moonlight. “Excellent!” Fiora found herself gasping, as Katarina continued her dual assault. Suddenly the girl was gone again and she found herself trying to parry a blow from behind as three throwing knives flew at her, followed by Katarina herself suddenly appearing at her rear. With five blades, most swordsmen, and even esteemed Bladesmen, would be gutted.
Fiora's left hand reached behind swift as a shadow, grabbing her smaller dirk she always kept hidden behind her back. With her right she parried two of the knives, letting one that was sailing high to the right fly over her shoulder as she leaned, dipping, to the left. At the same time she riposted Katarina's blades, turning a five bladed assault into a two bladed retaliation. Instead of hearing a satisfying cut from either, Fiora heard the knife embed on the wall behind her.
“Now this is exciting,” Katarina said, seated on the Overseer chair. “It's not often I find someone worthy to cross blades with...Fiora.”
Fiora sheathed her dirk and rapier, and turned to Katarina. “I could say the same myself, Katarina. Did I displease you?”
Katarina hummed softly to herself before stepping down and approaching Fiora, swaying her hips and stowing her blades.
“You did not, Demacian, displease me,” she whispered as she stepped close again.
She is...violent, skilled...and...absolutely the best I have ever fought. She takes pleasure in bloodshed, I can see it...can such a lustful assassin really be the best? Could it be possible all those in the League are so powerful? Or even more so?
“For some reason, Duelist, I am glad you didn't die tonight. It would have made me so sad,” she said as she placed a hand on Fiora's hip and cheek, looking up at her. Fiora was frozen. She never let anyone come this close to her. Letting others in was too dangerous unless prearranged.
Without letting her reply, Katarina turned her head and pulled Fiora in, kissing her flatly on the cheek. Wide-eyed at first, Fiora found her hand on Katarina's hip, and gripped it plainly.
“Kat got your tongue, Duelist?” she said hotly, the words laced with lust.
Fiora managed a quip. “Not quite, but darling, you are so very close. I suppose this is a good thing, is it not?”
Katarina laughed again. It could be a habit of hers, Fiora noted. She also noted how hot the room was getting. Garen? No. He isn't...fiery enough. But this woman is dangerous...
“How intriguing. After all, you hang Demacian banners in your home...you are the self-titled Grand Duelist of Demacia and here you are flirting so rashly with a Noxian. And not just any Noxian, but their best assassin...whose blades you blocked.” She giggled at that. “There's only one other to have truly matched me like that, even if for just a few seconds...and I hear you met with him earlier today. Tell me, what did he bring you, Duelist?” So this is what she's after. Garen...she means to kill him somehow. But I don't know where he is. And House Laurent holds no quarrel to Noxian or Demacian.
“Persuade me, Noxian. And I may tell you what he brought, and why.” After all, Fiora was truly interested in the situation.
“Bring me your famous wine, Fiora, and I may consider a chat somewhere more private, hmm?” The assassin said, nipping an ear.
She is so unlike anything I could have imagined...is she truly this flirtatious with skilled fighters?
“Zhen, dahling, you have come to ze right place.” Fiora hastily grabbed Katarina's hand, and led her from the room, toward the dining hall.
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The Vexed Blades