The stranger walked from alley to alley, navigating the labyrinthine network of Zaun's winding, layered streets with ease.
Entresol never changed.
His final destination was the remains of a once-famous bar located in the centre of the Undercity, as its current status would ease his task of deciphering which time period he was in.
A few minutes of deft parkour led him into the Entresol markets, the most popular bartering district in all of Zaun.
The man stood atop one of the many pipes that lined the surrounding buildings, gazing down onto the busy marketplace from above.
The square was with brimming with activity.
Uniquely dressed patrons passed between the many stalls and shops scattered throughout the open space, all moving about with a specific item or goal in mind.
Occasional catfights broke out amongst the antagonised crowd, caused by some minor slight or another.
Reputation was everything in Zaun. Fights to preserve your own weren't simply caused by a need for pride or social status—they were a necessity for survival.
The man drummed his armoured fingers against the side of his plated legs compulsively, his gaze fixed upon a singular, solitary building which lay beyond the market hubbub.
A large neon sign hanging above the establishment's broad doors indicated its trade—a bar.
A wide assortment of blades and shortswords were buried into the patch of earth beside its entrance, as the list of rules pinned to the doors clearly stated that oversized weaponry wasn't permitted inside.
It was the man's destination—standing tall and undamaged.
The man closed his eyes, relief washing over him.
Shimmer's inherent madness needled at the edges of his mind, repressed—but only just.
The man stepped off the edge of the rusted piping he was perched upon, falling the short way to the cobbled alley below.
There was no flashy entrance this time around.
No need to be senseless and attract any unwanted attention.
He learned from his mistakes. Always.
Little did the stranger know that while his entrance hadn't been pronounced, it had still been noticed.
✦ ✦ ✦
The man pushed one of the bar's doors open, greeted by a blast of warm, comforting air which quickly overpowered the biting cold of the lanes.
He stepped inside, ignoring the cacophony of laughter and snipped discussions that echoed around him.
The place was crowded, with nearly every table full or occupied—on both the first and second floors.
The man walked forward, skillfully weaving through the crowd of enthusiastic patrons without causing distress.
The stranger's deft movements did not allow him to slip by unnoticed, as much as he would have liked it to be otherwise.
The huge man behind the bar momentarily halted his task, placing down the empty mug he had been cleaning to look toward the small newcomer.
His shrewd grey eyes betrayed a caution that was unusual in a man of his great size and strength.
The stranger pulled back one of the few stools that lay free beside the counter, taking a seat at the bar.
His feet dangled above the ground childishly, revealing the barest hint of his black, metallic boots to the unobservant world around him.
"Well now, I don't believe I've seen you around here before," the barkeep said, eyeing the short man before him carefully.
The stranger tilted his head backwards, exposing pale skin and a defined, clearly masculine jawline.
"You would not have," he answered, his voice quiet and deep. "I'm a new face in town—so to speak."
The larger man looked down at the stranger with a well-concealed doubt.
"To what do I owe the pleasure then, stranger?" he asked, sliding the now-cleaned mug aside. "Most people don't make the long trek down here just for a drink."
The stranger stayed silent for a brief moment, staring across at the barkeep with uncharacteristic curiosity.
He had heard his Liege speak of this man before—in very high esteem at that. However, the man supposed that such praise was a given, considering her position as his ward.
He had not met the man personally before now—at least, not when he was so… sentient.
"You would be right in that assumption. However, that does not mean to say I would not like one—that is, if you have anything left."
The stranger's lip quirked upwards in an artificial amusement, glancing around the crowded, chaotic bar.
The barkeep took a quiet note of the claw-shaped scar that passed through the corner of the stranger's violet-coloured lips.
Then he chuckled lightly, reaching under the counter to pull out a fresh glass and a brand-new bottle of wine.
"Now that," the man started, uncorking the expensive-looking bottle, "is something I don't think I'll ever have a shortage of—no matter how many of this lot turn up."
The barkeep poured until the glass was a quarter full—a perfect guess as to how much the stranger wanted.
He then pushed the drink forward across the counter, offering it to the shorter man.
The stranger withdrew a hand from his coat and took hold of the medium-sized glass.
Under the barkeep's watchful eye, he brought the glass to his lips and drank, slowly mulling over the taste of the bitter, aged liquid.
Proper tasting was a habit drilled into the man by a close friend—someone who took to both manners and etiquette with dangerous sincerity.
Given the evaluative look the barkeep was giving him, the man could safely say he'd passed some kind of test—for better or worse.
To introductions then.
"My name is Callian Bright, first vassal of the Painted Lady."
The stranger spoke slowly, as if relishing his ability to speak of his title.
"Vander," the barkeep replied, slinging the dirty washcloth over his shoulder before offering a hand. "Mind telling me the reason for your visit? I have eyes all across this place—I may be able to help you out."
Callian analysed the man's words, taking a careful note of the offer and seeing it for what it truly was.
The barkeep was digging for information—first with the wine, purposefully chosen to test his affinity with high society, and now this offer, to uncover the reason behind his visit.
It was a subtle investigation—and an undeniably clever one at that.
His Liege's praise was not just empty talk, it seemed.
Callian took Vander's hand, shaking it fairly.
"For now?" the man mused. "I am simply… a scout."
His precisely chosen wording caused Vander's eyes to narrow.
The stranger's first words implied a greater purpose beyond his given one.
"A scout, huh," Vander replied, glancing around the bar amiably. "Whatever it is you're after, I'd expect topside'd have it in spades. Not too sure what you're doing dirtying yourself down here. In fact—I'm surprised they even let you cross in the first place."
The barkeep's unasked question hung in the air between them dauntingly.
In order for outsiders to get into the Undercity, they first needed to acquire a visitation permit from the sheriff of Piltover.
This regulation was put in place to prevent Zaun from receiving unauthorised backing from any external factions.
Simply put, it was another way for the high council to oppress Zaun's development while keeping it fully dependent on Piltover's resources.
If Callian was an official envoy—just as he claimed to be—then he would have first needed to submit a formal request for one.
Vander's words were another subtle, calculated prod for information.
Callian was impressed with the man's shrewdness—mildly.
Most would not have even registered the man's words—or actions—as suspicious.
He was certainly praiseworthy.
"I have already scoured the entirety of topside, as you call it," Callian answered, rapping the tips of his armoured fingers onto the glass before him.
His movements generated a melodic tinkling as the sharp, refined metal alloy met with the cheaply made glass.
"It was… unsuitable for our purposes."
Vander's gaze hardened, taking a moment to consider what Callian's words might imply.
Assuming the newcomer wasn't lying about his purpose here—and given his very precise wording, that was unlikely—then that could only mean one thing.
The faction or Lady he represented was looking to expand their influence—passing over Piltover and setting their sights on the Undercity.
This man was not the first scout sent here. Most prior to him saw Zaun as a lost cause, given its firm position beneath Piltover's towering heel.
But those prior to this man had gone through official channels to get here, crossing the bridge with the sheriff's approval.
This man had not. Callian possessed no permit for his visit.
If he did, then Vander's contact at the enforcer station would have informed him of the man's impending arrival, just like they had with the others.
The barkeep was broken from his brooding as the stranger tapped him on the hand with a single, armoured forefinger.
"Worry not, Vander. If my Lady does decide to travel here, her presence will bring nothing but good to your city."
The barkeep huffed unhappily.
Good was a highly subjective term.
Vander quickly bid the stranger goodbye before moving away to serve a new group who had just entered the bar.
They were dirty—likely having returned from working in one of Zaun's many hazardous mineshafts.
A minute bead of blood pooled upward onto Vander's exposed hand, unnoticed by all but its afflicter.
Callian tutted, eyeing the tiny incision with a fraction of regret.
Vander was weak, untempered by the trials he had yet to live through.
Strong amongst his peers—sure. But when thrust into the bigger picture?
Weak. Far too weak to be useful.
This was not the scourge he was used to. This was not one of Zaun's many champions. This was not Warwick.
Still. If Vander were alive, and the mines were still open, then that meant that the warp had been successful.
He was back—before that dreaded massacre.
He had time. Time to fix everything. Time to prepare for what was coming.
Now alone, Callian allowed himself to tremble with a silent, stoic relief.
Their plan had worked. The exact date didn't matter.
All that mattered was that he was back.
Those two had actually managed it—managed to stabilise time travel and remove the risk of unwinding his present self.
His existence was assured. And in turn, their futures were too.
Callian downed the rest of his drink before sliding the empty glass across the counter and into Vander's open hand.
The barkeep tilted his head in a subtle thanks, mouthing the words, "I'll put it on your tab," before turning his attention back to the new influx of customers.
Callian's comrades had done their part.
What little remained of the future was now theirs to guide onward as they wished.
He would carry their dreams of a better world into the past, seeing them through to the end.
No matter the cost.
✦ ✦ ✦