milk-white iridescence
It had been exceedingly hard to find any concrete information about the commune.
It seemed all information about it circulated only through second-hand rumor and whispered, illicit gossip. That was the very horrible thing about anything relating to the Undercity, Salo thought. It was all so hidden, under layers and layers of buildings and basements and tunnels that just seemed to descend more and more. No one ever wrote a guide to the undercity. There were no maps of the Undercity. It was, altogether, a rather stupid idea to even seek the rumor out. There was all the chance in the world that it was just that: a rumor, and that Salo would end up dead and robbed of all he had in some smoggy, dark, rancid alleyway.
But the chance that it was real, that this miracle worker actually existed and could actually fix him- that was a risk he was willing to take.
Salo, who had lived the majority of life in posh, material comfort, was beginning to understand what drove the people of the Undercity to try all the desperate things they attempted- revolution, self-governence, a hundred different forms of petty crime. Desperation was a very powerful god to be beholden to. If one was wanting in such a complete, intrinsic way- if they knew so wholeheartedly that there was something missing within them, they would do anything to get it back. Even if it was a ridiculous, preposterous idea. Even if it would more likely end in them dying than attaining their prize. Desperation pushed one to gamble everything away, for the singular chance to win it all back- and more. When one wanted something enough, it was always worth the risk.
Every minute of every day that he remained in this crippled, broken state, Salo became more and more aware of how much he needed to leave it. He needed to be his complete self again, to regain his mobility and dignity and the respect of his peers alike.
All this to say, when such a tantalizing opportunity came his way, he would’ve been a fool to refuse it.
He had convinced Lest to take him down- as a guide, as a safeguard, as an assistant- for a hefty sum that was a lot to receive for someone of her station, but not too much to give for someone of his. It was a tumultuous, arduous journey- made all the worse by his condition, and the horrible clothes he had to wear over his frail body to not stand out.
The Undercity reeked- like smoke and gas and chemical runoff. In all his long years as Councilman, had never stepped foot in the lesser half of the city he governed. He decided, on his first venture within it, that it was really not all that worth visiting- and would not have been worth visiting at all had it not been what was promised within it. It was very much how he had imagined it- a mental image that had been formed from the grisly tales and reports told by the enforcers who worked there. The air was thick and rank even when filtered through the breath-mask he wore, that dug into the skin of his face and which would certainly leave unsightly red lines all over his cheeks. The streets were so deep in the fissures and canyons that they existed only in perpetual, smoggy night, lit only by broken, flickering streetlamps and signs from the varying establishments- bars and brothels and second-hand shops- that they passed, bathing the streets in neon blues, pinks, violets. The pavement was uneven and bumpy in a way that Salo hated, entirely- every rough bump or fall sent a sharp, startling jolt through his body. He kept his gaze low during the journey, underneath the thick woolen hood that both shielded him from the elements and the wandering gazes of others. Though, the people of the Undercity still took notice of him, and he, indeed, took notice of them too- their raggad, many-times-patched up clothes, the body replacements and mobility aides they flaunted so easily and openly- because why bother hiding something so common among your people? There were clear signs of community- triving market stalls, pairs and groups gathered for cards, drinks conversation- but disrepair was everywhere. Often the glass in the windows of shops they passed was shattered and spilled out onto the street. Sometimes, a streetlamp would be completely lit, but more often it would be flickering- or simply out completely, the bulb shattered and broken. = The streets were marked with occasional potholes and puddles of murky water or some other unidentifiable liquid, which splashed up on Salo when they passed through them- cold and dirty and miserable, as everything in the Undercity was cold and dirty and miserable.
But the commune- the commune was nothing like it.Where the Undercity was grim and dark and cold, the commune was light, and airy- brightened with what seemed to be actual sunlight. It was warm, in a pleasant, unoppressive way. The air was clean in a way that could’ve never been achived through filtration- it was the result of actual photosynthesis. There was an airyness about the place- buildings made in strange organic shapes with great open windows so the clean, light breeze could filter through them. Wind-chimes hung up in windows and doorways, that tink-tink-tinked in the afternoon air, that had the effect of putting one in the mind of complete pastoral, countryside bliss. Most of the land not devoted to lodging was set aside for agriculture- small gardens and farm-plots of crops Salo didn’t think could naturally grow in the rocky, nutrient-sapped soil of the Undercity. The commune seemed to be the antithesis of all that the rest of the Undercity was- it was clean and pristine where the Undercity was dirty, it was open and airy where the Undercity was dense and cramped. Though it was so much the antithesis of the fissure streets that surrounded it, it was not the opposite of the undercity in the same way the clean, orderly streets of Piltover were. There was no wealth here- no gold to be flaunted or house names to be proudly displayed. This- whatever this was, was wholly unique.
The people here, in the commune, were even stranger than the physical commune itself. They differed in appearance in a rather averaging way- what Salo would’ve expected if one had taken a random sample of Piltover’s population- but without human flaw. They all moved perfectly, without stumble or misstep. Every movement was made with exact, perfect deliberation- to say it was almost mechanical would be a disservice, it was mechanical, but in a way that could never have been crafted by the artistry, the failing, imperfect human hands. They all wore loose-fitting robes of white, draped across their machinist, purified bodies, and held their oil-spill gazes aloft, like they were looking at something perpetually in the distance, just beyond your face.
Those glossy-eyed commune-folk had set Salo up in a small, dome-like structure- one of many he could not tell apart from any of the others. There was a low bed that he laid upon, and a great open window that looked out upon a small agricultural garden. There was a large plant, grown up from the ground itself instead of being confined to something as ridiculous and human as a pot; it’s wide fronds swayed gently in the slight afternoon breeze. There was a windchime, too, that played pleasant, discordant notes in tune with nature only.
Salo was alone minutes only, before the Herald entered.
He knew it was the Herald, because it could have been no one else. He was of a long, limber form, though not of a severely impressing height- he was of a middling stature, with a shockingly upright posture. He walked with a tall, twisty staff, though the way he carried it did not suggest he relied on it to support his weight. His wiry, chestnut-brown hair framed an uncannily familiar face- had Salo met this Herald sometime before?- and subtly hid the organic, almost mycelial patterns that traced down his cheekbones. The Herald did not wear the white vestements of his disciples, but a long-skirted robe of rich, navy blue. His body beneath the robe was strange, like nothing Salo had ever seen before, all taught lines of indigo-gray muscle and metallic, shimmering gold embellishment along it.
There was also something immaterially strange about him- something Salo couldn’t quite place, but couldn’t quite stop himself from noticing. There was an unearthliness to him, even more present than in the glossy-eyed, distant disciples he leaded. The Herald moved vacantly, as if he was constantly existing at two places at once. It was as if he was equal parts man, machine, and divine.
He, the Herald, was quiet and contemplative for a very long moment, looking over Salo with multi-chromatic, hue-shifting eyes, before saying in greeting. “Councilor Salo. I’ll admit, it is... a surprise, to see you here. But not a wholly unwelcome one.”
Salo had not told the Herald his name. He had not told anyone in the commune his name- and wasn’t it unnerving, that the Herald so easily knew it? He was used to being a public figure, to people knowing his face- but there was something very different about this, wasn’t there? There was something very chilling, about the Herald knowing his name. There was something almost frightening about it.
He took Salo’s hand in his long, nimble, indigo-gray fingers, and Salo let him completely willingly, like all his self-control and inhibition had been taken away. He traced down, ever-gently, down to Salo’s wrist, where his bluish veins were visible through his pale skin. His hands were inhumanly cold, what Salo could only describe as skin did not feel like human skin. And yet, his touch had some effect on Salo- something like static electricity, or radiant heat. There was something about this Herald, that was so difficult to place.
Just as Salo was beginning to feel comfortable in the silence, the Herald spoke again. “Do you... wish to support our cause? To join us?”
“I do-” Salo sputtered, flabbergasted and all at once- speaking quickly and out of turn. Where had all his charisma, his ease of conversation gone. Was he really that desperate? “Please- I want to be healed. I want to be whole again.”
The Herald’s heavy eyebrows lifted, something quirked in the corners of his lips. “I can repair you.” His head inclined in the slightest nod. “I can make you more than whole. I will make you better than you were before.”
“Thank you-” Salo stammered, and was so drunk on pure relief, unadulterated bliss, that he was about to say more to profess his gratitude and devotion, when the Herald silenced him with a simple raise of his hand.
“Lean back,” He instructed, and Salo did so- pressing his back to the flat surface of the bed. “This might feel, ehhh... a little strange. But it will be quick.”
And Salo could say no more before it happened. He in took sharp breath, and closed his eyes, and felt the Herald’s strange, cold fingers grace his forehead- splayed out around him, holding as much of his face as he could- and then, Salo was gone, gone, gone- enveloped into light and infinity and so much of nothing he could comprehend. It felt as if he was a piece of clothe, being washed until no stain of humanity remained. It put him in the mind of being put through a sieve, where everything weak and human of him was caught and filtered away, with nothing but the true water of his being remaining. It was, in a word, truly glorious. He felt very happy, to have his suffering so removed, didn’t he?
And when it was over, there was nothing of his desperation left.