[ HE WAS DYING AGAIN OK he has to go back to jinx ]
Imagine two cities. One is in the remains of a bomb, the earth cracked, spanning downward. Natural resources are revealed, but mining and industry pollute the air, the earth, the water. The people mine it, they dig deeper. Trenchers, they are called. Fissure folk. They do not own the mines, they do not even own the land their own city is built on. Some from this city, when the bomb hit, moved to the island on the other side of the river. Two islands, linked by bridge. Isolated from anyone and anything else, except by boat.
The city on the island thrives. Calls itself progress. They were the wealthy of this Osha Va'Zaun, but as they looked over the remains of their past, they called themselves Piltover. They owned all of the land, so the rich lands on the other side of the river was Piltover as well, but they called it the Undercity instead. They mined, they built, for generations all that Piltover, the city of Progress could call their own, came from the undercity.
Do you know what happens, when the industry and mining seep into the ground? When it pools in the water? When they pump waste and dust and filth into the air? It becomes hostile. It becomes toxic. These trenchers, they are sick. Poor. Their only worth is to mine and work, toiling day in and day out, for the people who keep them stuck in the mire on the other side of the river.
They take our raw materials, they use them for their own inventions, and they call it... "progress". They use our bodies, our labor, and our pleasure houses, and then return to their families and full bellies, all the while calling us lesser.
They keep a council, to manage laws, and determine the fate of two separate cities. They do not give us a seat at that table. We tried, Hugo. I tried, when I was your age. The end result of that attempt, you felt once, as well. I was drowned in the river, and mutilated for the attempt.
And the head of that council? Who has all of the power?
That is Mel Medarda.
She is the one who turned her face away, ignored us. Pretended that we were merely unruly criminals, and allowed deals to happen, as long as the city she considered hers was quiet and crime free. What did it matter if the trenchers starved? We were only criminals, after all. They have never had a care for us. And yes, in my desperation, I became that which now frightens them. You know what it is, to have to become the monster they always saw you as.
I did that. We did that. Because what other choice did we have?
breathes in
he has to go back to jinx ]
Imagine two cities. One is in the remains of a bomb, the earth cracked, spanning downward. Natural resources are revealed, but mining and industry pollute the air, the earth, the water. The people mine it, they dig deeper. Trenchers, they are called. Fissure folk. They do not own the mines, they do not even own the land their own city is built on. Some from this city, when the bomb hit, moved to the island on the other side of the river. Two islands, linked by bridge. Isolated from anyone and anything else, except by boat.
The city on the island thrives. Calls itself progress. They were the wealthy of this Osha Va'Zaun, but as they looked over the remains of their past, they called themselves Piltover. They owned all of the land, so the rich lands on the other side of the river was Piltover as well, but they called it the Undercity instead. They mined, they built, for generations all that Piltover, the city of Progress could call their own, came from the undercity.
Do you know what happens, when the industry and mining seep into the ground? When it pools in the water? When they pump waste and dust and filth into the air? It becomes hostile. It becomes toxic. These trenchers, they are sick. Poor. Their only worth is to mine and work, toiling day in and day out, for the people who keep them stuck in the mire on the other side of the river.
They take our raw materials, they use them for their own inventions, and they call it... "progress". They use our bodies, our labor, and our pleasure houses, and then return to their families and full bellies, all the while calling us lesser.
They keep a council, to manage laws, and determine the fate of two separate cities. They do not give us a seat at that table. We tried, Hugo. I tried, when I was your age. The end result of that attempt, you felt once, as well. I was drowned in the river, and mutilated for the attempt.
And the head of that council? Who has all of the power?
That is Mel Medarda.
She is the one who turned her face away, ignored us. Pretended that we were merely unruly criminals, and allowed deals to happen, as long as the city she considered hers was quiet and crime free. What did it matter if the trenchers starved? We were only criminals, after all. They have never had a care for us. And yes, in my desperation, I became that which now frightens them. You know what it is, to have to become the monster they always saw you as.
I did that. We did that. Because what other choice did we have?