Graves Noir (WIP)

	It was a tavern. And a right filthy one at that. Bars in the slums o' Noxus were a damn sight prettier than the dump I'd begrudgingly let the bartender call me “regular” at. It was Bilgewater – and not the fancy-pants merchant district where Sarah drank – this was a bar knee-deep in shit, puke and debauchery. Cigar smoke hung in the air like bad memories and the one I'd been puffin' on didn't do a damn thing to help it. Some poor bastard sitting next to me went ahead and fell straight off his stool into a pool of fresh piss the bartender probably would probably rather pretend wasn't there. The drunks, sailors and downtrodden here didn't have a better place to call home, and neither did I. Between “jobs” and gunnin' straight for a brick wall named penniless, I did the responsible thing and drank away the last few bits of gold I could rub together.

	I caught a break though, and overheard two sailors talking a bit too loudly about a shipment that just rolled in off a merchant ship. Sounded like something easy to flip – hexplosives. And right as I had half a mind to go pay that ship a visit, the doors to the bar blew open, and the place smelled like gunpowder and sea breeze. Went well with the smell of piss and alcohol.

	“There he is!” shouted one of the men. He was clutchin' a six-shooter and flanked by two tall, mean sonsofbitches carrying a shotgun apiece. “Time to collect boys!”

	Maybe if I hadn't been through eight glasses that night I'd've been a bit quicker on the draw, but Destiny was kind enough to forgive my wild aim, and after two bangs and the sound of the cylinder clicking as it turned, the loud mouth that blew the doors open was pissin' himself. Or about to anyway.

	“Get that worthless pea-shooter outta my face before I make you.” He dropped it and the damn thing went off, punching yet another hole in the wall of the tavern. I don't think the bartender even looked up from the glass he was cleanin'. “The hell you playin' at waltzin' in like you're about to collect on me?”

	Reminded me of a rat the more I talked to him. Squeaky voice now that he wasn't holding six shots of “listen here, partner”, and like all the skinny mooks they send out to collect bounties, he sung like a canary. He handed me a paper, hands shakin' more than a Shuriman caravaner stuck in the Freljord, with my mug and a number below it with enough zeroes to make me forget about Fate and look for a beach house in Ionia. But I wasn't a forgettin' kind of man, especially not when a cocksucker like Twisted Fate is involved. I booted his pistol into the drink and tossed him in after it for good measure – figured a nice swim would help him rethink his life choices.

	The poor bastards that put him up to this were kind enough to leave the name of their company on the slip of paper. The rat-bastard that tried to give me a few extra holes said they were based in Zaun, and what a fuckin' holiday that was gonna be. Hadn't been there since the breakout, and I hadn't planned on goin' on back, but at the moment, without even so much as a whisper of some gypsy swindling poor fucks out of their gold in games of chance for the last three god damn months, bad ideas were just about the only thing I had left to fall back on.

	So I hit the road. Didn't have much to lose left in my pocket that I didn't mind sending down-range, and it was always easy enough to hitch a ride somewhere. The zeppelin operators that took people to Zaun were spineless sods that would just as soon give me the damn thing as let me ride on it.

- - -

	A quiet ride in a floating blimp with nothing but awkward coughing and the usual terrified stares later I was back in the city-state I swore I wouldn't step into without Fate in my sights or shackles on my wrists, and I'll be damned if it hadn't changed a fuckin' bit. Still looked like shit, still smelled like shit, and that green haze that seemed to just float on through the air itself felt like it'd gotten thicker. I took to finding the company that only way I knew how – shoved the paper under the nearest nose I could and asked them where I could find the place. I'd been smart enough to tear my mug off the paper, but the Zaunites were feelin' less than helpful. Figures when you're a thug fresh outta Bilgewater with a rough accent and a two barrels with nothing but bad ideas in 'em, people don't want to have much to do with ya.

	Not one of my better ideas, I figured. Boredom and empty pockets have made me do stupid shit before, but now I'd gone all in with Jack high. So I made to the nearest bar to empty the last few bits of gold on a counter for a mug of something strong, and for once it seemed that luck didn't feel like being a bitch. Over a tall glass of something that tasted even worse than it smelled and made the room go outta focus I could hear muffled whispers sproutin' around me. I heard scuffles and swishes, and when I'd swiveled around in my chair to bring Destiny to bear, I had enough pistols, rifles and shotguns pointed at me to make Gangplank blush.

	This hardly sounds like my luck was turnin' around, but I'd pulled Destiny up off the floor and had her in my arms – much better than things usually went for some poor sap that gets jumped at a bar. They didn't seem to be in a talkin' mood either – you coulda heard one of those Kinkou sumbitches sneeze. I don't think the idiots expected a shotgun that fires smoke grenades, but the confusion was enough for me to get behind the bar and toss the 'tender over onto some table with the rest of his terrified patrons.

	The sound of the shattering bottles and spilling liquor died down pretty quickly, so I popped out from behind the bar and let loose a homemade cocktail. Equal parts powder and explosive. It damn near disintegrated the poor sap that took the hit, along with most of the wall and idiots standing behind him. The smoke cleared out pretty quicklike after that, and most the saps that had been pointing guns at me were blown out across the floor. Some of 'em in pieces, some of 'em not – didn't matter much to me. I turned to the bartender and after pulling him back up from under the table he dove under, shoved the slip of paper I'd been flailing all day under his nose.

	“The way I see it, you've got two options. Ya tell me where this place is and I leave enough gold on the bodies to cover the damages, or I beat it outta ya and take it all.” He chose the right option to say the least. Turns out the only place with enough money to pay out such a hefty sum once belonged to the late Priggs himself – bounties were paid out from it, usually placed on the heads of anyone that'd been stupid enough to try and muscle in on the slice of Zaun Priggs had carved for himself.

	So there I was, a marked man heading straight for the building itself. No one had to put out a bounty on me – I'd given the Priggs enterprise two barrels worth of reasons to do me in. If they wanted my head, they were gonna get it, and it wasn't gonna be pretty. I should have figured it was a trap. Maybe I did. But it didn't matter much at the time – there were a lot of zeroes on my head.

- - -

	The building was in a grimier part of the town – I guess bounty hunters aren't the richest folk. Or maybe they just liked remembering their roots. Hell, maybe it was flat out illegal and the authorities didn't have the time of day to check the slums for lawbreakers, but either way, it let me blend in much faster than the nicer parts of the city did. The girl at the front desk didn't looked to pleased to see me, and I'm sure if I didn't have my hand on her mouth she'd have screamed bloody murder. Two hunters were muttering to each other off to the side, but all it took was Destiny pointing in their direction to get them to leave. “Now, I don't know who's gone ahead and put a bounty out on my head, but