POV - Azra'il
Abigail, who had observed our exchange with an indecipherably satisfied motherly expression, pushed herself off the counter where she had been leaning while talking with Morgana.
"You two talk a lot," she said, but there was obvious affection in her tone. "Sarah rarely finds people who understand craft. Or who make her laugh." Then, turning to us, "You wanted to see the real workshop. Where the work happens. Come on. But there are rules: don't touch anything without asking. Don't ask questions about specific client projects. And if you see something covered with a tarp, it stays covered. Understood?"
"Perfectly," I agreed. "Professional respect and trade secrets remain secret."
"Good." She turned, gesturing towards the back door. "Sarah, bring them."
Sarah gestured for us to follow, clearly excited. "You'll like it. Mother's workshop is… special."
We followed her through the back door, and the smell changed immediately. The already-present scent of gunpowder and metal intensified, mixed with the residual heat from the forge and the characteristic perfume of wood being worked.
The workshop in the back was where the real transformation happened.
The space was compact but perfectly organised, every inch optimised for functionality. The ceiling was higher than in the front area, necessary to accommodate the chimney of the forge that dominated one corner. Strategically placed windows on the upper walls allowed for cross-ventilation and natural light, minimising the need for smoky lamps during the day.
The forge itself was not the massive furnace of an industrial smithy. It was a smaller, more refined unit, built specifically for precision work, not mass production. Residual heat still emanated from it even when unlit, and the smell of coal and heated metal was more intense here.
[Thermal analysis: Forge has been used recently. Approximately two hours ago. Residual temperature still elevated. Efficient. Well-maintained.]
Solid workbenches lined three of the four walls, their heavy wooden surfaces stained and scarred from years of heavy use, but clean. Organised with a precision that bordered on obsession.
Tools hung on hooks above the benches or rested in specific positions: hammers of varying weights, pliers of different sizes, fine and coarse files, precision callipers, compasses, set squares. Every tool had its place. Every place had its tool.
[Organisation: 96% efficient. A system developed through decades of practice. She could grab any tool without looking. Muscle memory. Impressive.]
Shelves on the walls held raw materials organised by type and size: steel bars of different grades, some clearly from Noxus based on their colour and texture, blocks of Ionian wood with a dense grain and characteristic dark hue, smaller containers meticulously labelled with components: Springs - Calibre 3, Pins - Standard Size, Screws - Assorted.
And on one of the main benches, lit by a window that caught the afternoon light perfectly, was a pistol in progress.
Not complete. Partially assembled, the barrel polished to a gleam, waiting for a stock. The firing mechanism was disassembled beside it into its individual components, each small piece arranged in the exact order of assembly, reflecting the light with the shine of masterfully worked metal.
I automatically drew closer, attracted by the quality visible even from a distance.
"You can look," Abigail said from behind me.
I leaned over the bench, studying the work with the attention it deserved.
The barrel was a work of art. The steel was so evenly polished it looked almost like a mirror. The internal tolerances would be microscopic, necessary for long-range accuracy. The weight felt perfectly balanced even incomplete.
"This is exceptional work," I murmured, more to myself than to an audience. "The polishing alone must have taken… what, fifteen hours?"
"Eighteen," Abigail corrected, coming to my side. There was satisfaction in her voice. "Polishing is where most gunsmiths cut corners. Barrels work reasonably well with a middling finish. But perfection…" she picked up the barrel carefully, turning it in the light, "perfection requires patience. Hours of repetitive work that most find tedious. But it makes a difference. In accuracy. In durability. In how long the weapon maintains its quality."
"Worth every hour," I agreed.
"Exactly." She placed the barrel back with a reverent care. "This one's for a captain who hunts in the deep waters. Needs long range, exceptional accuracy, and resistance to saltwater corrosion. So I used Noxian steel with a high nickel content, a specific heat treatment for flexibility without sacrificing hardness, and I'll seal it with a special oil I buy from an alchemist in Zaun."
"Zaun?" I repeated, interested. "Contacts in Zaun are… impressive."
"Expensive," Abigail corrected with a half-smile. "But the oil works. Superior chemical protection to anything produced locally. And when you're charging hundreds of gold cogs for a weapon, investing a portion in premium materials is just sensible."
[Note: She is being surprisingly open about processes and costs. This is either trust. Or a test. Possibly both.]
Morgana had moved to another bench where measuring tools were laid out—callipers, micrometres, custom-made jigs. "These are handmade," she observed of one calliper. "Not factory-produced."
"Correct," Abigail confirmed. "My mother made most of them. Some, I made. Commercial precision tools are adequate, but when you need the exact specifications for your specific work…" she shrugged. "You make your own. Sarah is learning now. Part of the training."
Sarah had moved to a corner of the workshop that was apparently her workspace—a smaller bench, appropriately sized tools, projects-in-progress arranged with a care that mirrored Abigail's.
"Want to see what I'm working on?" she asked, looking at me specifically.
"Yes," I replied, perhaps too quickly, then controlled my tone to something more casual. "Definitely."
I walked over as she picked up a partially worked barrel, the same one she had mentioned before in the shop.
"My first complete pistol," she said, a mixture of pride and nervousness in her voice. "From scratch. Every component. My mother supervises, but the work is mine."
She held the barrel out so I could see it better. Even in the filtered light of the workshop, the quality was evident.
"I started with a bar of steel. It took a week just to forge the basic shape—heating, hammering, cooling, repeating until it was right." Her fingers traced the length of the metal with familiarity. "Then boring the inside. That was… challenging. Because if you get the angle wrong by a fraction of a degree, the entire barrel is ruined. Had to start over."
"How many attempts?" I asked.
"Four," she admitted, grimacing. "The first three had micro-imperfections that only showed up when I tested with the calliper. Mother said it was normal. That the first barrel never comes out perfect. But this one…" a small, satisfied smile, "this one is at 98% of her specification."
I held out a hand. "May I?"
"Yes."
I took the barrel carefully, feeling its weight, not too heavy, not too light. Proper balance. The outer surface was polished, not to the level of Abigail's work yet, but impressive for a first attempt. No visible imperfections. The work of someone who had paid attention, invested the time, cared about the result.
"This is exceptional for a first complete project," I said honestly. "You have a natural talent. But more importantly, you have patience. And an eye for detail. Many would have given up on the second attempt. You went to the fourth."
Sarah looked at me, and there was something in her expression, surprise mixed with a genuine pleasure at receiving a compliment from someone who clearly understood the work.
"Thank you," Sarah said, warmth in her voice. "That means a lot, coming from someone who really understands. Most people just look and say, 'oh, neat' without seeing the work. You…" she paused, "you see the process. The effort. It's different."
"Because I've worked with metal before," I replied, navigating carefully. "Not firearms, but similar principles. Forging. Heat treatment. The need for absolute precision. I understand what it means to invest weeks in a single component because perfection matters."
I handed the barrel back carefully.
Sarah placed it back in its spot on the bench, then picked up another piece, what looked to be a partially finished trigger. "This is the next challenge. The firing mechanism. Mother says it's the most critical part. If something goes wrong here, the whole gun is useless. Or worse, dangerous."
"True," Abigail confirmed from across the workshop, where she was showing Morgana the heat treatment process. "A trigger needs the exact right tension. Too light, it fires accidentally. Too heavy, the shooter can't use it effectively. And every internal component has to fit with tolerances of fractions of a millimetre."
"That's why I don't let Sarah work on client mechanisms yet," she added. "Needs more years of practice. But for a personal project, with supervision…" she shrugged. "The best way to learn is by doing. And by failing. And trying again, better."
Sarah's face was a picture of determination. "I won't fail."
"You will fail several times," Abigail corrected gently. "Everyone fails. The question is what you do after. Do you give up, or do you try again, better."
"I try again," Sarah said at once.
"I know. That's why you'll be excellent." There was obvious motherly pride in Abigail's voice.
Morgana had come to stand beside me, watching the exchange between Abigail and Sarah with a thoughtful expression.
"They remind me of us," she murmured, low enough for only me to hear. "A mother teaching a determined daughter. High standards. Expectations of excellence. Obvious love, but not suffocating."
"Except you don't teach me how to make guns," I replied in the same low tone. "You teach me not to die doing stupid experiments."
"Same principle. Different application."
"Fair enough."
Abigail had turned to us again, gesturing towards the forge area. "Want to see an actual forging process? I won't light the full furnace, takes time and coal, but I can demonstrate the basic technique on cold metal."
"Yes," I replied before Morgana could.
[Obvious enthusiasm. You are genuinely interested. Not just being polite.]
[And it has nothing to do with Sarah standing next to you, looking at you with that smile?]
<…the primary focus is educational.>
Abigail spent the next twenty minutes demonstrating techniques—how to hold a hammer for maximum control, the angles of impact to shape metal without creating internal stresses, the visual temperature of heated metal and what each colour meant for its malleability.
Sarah remained at my side throughout the explanation, occasionally adding her own observations or asking questions that demonstrated a deep understanding of the process.
And I… I tried to keep my focus appropriately divided between Abigail's fascinating demonstration and Sarah's equally fascinating presence beside me.
With variable success.
[Failed multiple times. Looked at Sarah instead of the demonstration at least seven times. Not subtle.]
Eventually, Abigail placed the demonstration tools back in their designated spots and wiped her hands on a cloth already stained with years of use.
"You understand more than most," she said, genuine approval in her tone. "You ask the right questions. You pay attention to the details that matter. It's… refreshing. Most visitors I get just want to touch expensive guns and pretend they understand."
"Respect is the very least a craft such as this deserves," Morgana replied.
Abigail nodded, looking at Sarah who was organising the used tools. "Sarah rarely has people her age who share the interest. Most in Bilgewater see guns as a means to an end, to rob, to kill, to survive. Not as an art."
"It's pretty boring," Sarah admitted, not looking up from the tools. "Growing up surrounded by people who don't get why you care about millimetre-tolerances when 'a gun that shoots' should be good enough."
There was a vulnerability in that admission that made something in my chest tighten.
Abigail turned to Morgana, changing the subject with the grace of someone who respected her daughter's emotional boundaries. "Travelling alone with a child across Runeterra. The Freljord, Noxus, and now Bilgewater. It's not a common choice."
"Azra'il is not a common child," Morgana replied simply. "Keeping her still would be impossible. And counterproductive."
"I've noticed." Abigail studied me with renewed interest. "She has the eyes of someone who has seen too much. Not the innocence of a sheltered child."
"Because I wasn't sheltered," I offered, deciding a partial truth was acceptable. "Or rather, I was protected from dying, but not from reality."
"An interesting approach to motherhood."
Morgana made a sound that could have been a laugh. "It's not a traditional approach. But then tradition rarely survives contact with Azra'il for more than a week."
"That sounds like a story."
"Several stories. Most involving questionable decisions and unexpected outcomes."
Sarah had come closer, clearly curious. "Like what?"
Morgana shot me a look, one that said, 'do you really want me to tell them?' I sighed.
"She's going to mention the poisons if I don't speak first," I said. "So: once, a few years ago, I tested an unknown toxin on myself to document the effects. I had an antidote prepared. In theory."
"In theory," Morgana repeated, her emphasis dry. "You turned violet for six hours."
"But I survived. And the data was invaluable."
"You swore you were going to die in the third hour."
"Drama in a moment of extreme discomfort. It's allowed."
Sarah was looking at me with an expression between horror and reluctant admiration. "You… you tested poison. On yourself. On purpose."
"With appropriate precautions."
"'Appropriate' is a generous interpretation," Morgana muttered.
Abigail had crossed her arms, but she was smiling. "Sarah tried to fire a high-calibre pistol when she was ten without my knowledge. The bruise on her shoulder lasted two weeks."
"I wanted to see if I could," Sarah defended.
"And you found out. The answer was 'no, your bones aren't developed enough'." Abigail looked at Morgana. "They have that in common. A determination that conveniently ignores physical limitations."
"And a sense of self-preservation that is… flexible," Morgana added.
"We're right here," I protested. "Present. Listening to you discuss our flaws."
"They're not flaws," Abigail corrected, but there was warmth in her voice. "They are traits that will either keep you alive. Or get you killed spectacularly. We haven't decided which."
Sarah and I exchanged a look of instant solidarity between people being analysed by their maternal figures.
"Do they do this often?" Sarah asked quietly.
"With disturbing regularity," I replied in the same tone.
"Mother makes comparisons whenever she meets another mother of a 'challenging' girl. It's a ritual."
"Morgana runs constant risk-analyses. As if I'm an ongoing experiment."
"You are an experiment," Morgana commented without looking over. "And you continue to prove my hypothesis that intelligence and wisdom are not always correlated."
[She has an excellent point.]
The light through the windows had shifted significantly, the angle indicating late afternoon.
[Five hours and twelve minutes since arrival. Time has passed quickly when you're engaged.]
Morgana noticed too. "We should consider heading back. Tahn was specific about nightfall."
"Tahn is careful," Abigail agreed. "Rare in Bilgewater, but sensible. The Choked Serpent is a decent establishment."
She paused, then: "You should come back. Sarah would benefit from having… regular conversations with someone like you. Someone who doesn't see every interaction as a transaction."
There was a careful weight to those words, an offer being made without pressure, but with hope.
"We would like that," Morgana said, watching me.
"Yes," I agreed. Then, more honestly: "This was the first place in Bilgewater where I didn't need to calculate escape routes or the probability of being robbed. It's… refreshing."
Sarah smiled, small but genuine. "And you're the first person I've met who can explain metallurgy without boring me. That's rare."
"Metallurgy is never boring if it's explained correctly."
"Exactly." Obvious enthusiasm now. "Everyone else treats it like formulas and numbers. You treat it like… applied art. Science with a purpose."
"Because that's what it is."
There was a moment, brief but significant, where we just looked at each other. A mutual recognition of similar minds. Shared interests. An understanding that finding this was rare.
Especially in Bilgewater.
[Your heart rate has climbed. Not dramatically. But consistently when she smiles like that. An interesting pattern.]
[I disagree. All data is relevant.]
We moved to the front of the shop, a natural transition of a visit coming to an end.
Sarah held out her hand. A formal gesture, but there was an underlying warmth. "It was good to meet you. For real. Not just 'a tourist passed through and left'. But someone who… sticks in your memory."
I took her hand, the contact firm, appropriate. "It was good to meet you too. And to learn. And to see that competence exists even in places that look like total chaos."
"Bilgewater is total chaos," Sarah corrected. "We just have pockets of sanity. This is one of them."
"Good to know where to find the sanity."
"Come back whenever you're looking for it." She looked me in the eyes. "It'd be nice. To have someone to talk to. About things that matter. Not just about who robbed who or which captain's at war with which."
There was a hope in those words. Perhaps even a bit of vulnerability she likely didn't show often.
"I'll be back," I promised. Simple. Direct. Honest.
The smile I got in return did something strange to my ribcage.
Morgana and Abigail exchanged more reserved farewells, nods, a mutual respect of women who recognised strength in each other without needing to perform it.
"Take care," Abigail said. "Bilgewater by day is manageable. By night… less so."
"We are cautious," Morgana assured her.
We left. The door closed behind us with a satisfying solidity.
The street of Bilgewater, still dirty, still chaotic, but marginally less apocalyptic in this area, greeted us with its familiar noise and salty smell.
We started walking. A comfortable silence for approximately thirty seconds. Then:
"You like her."
It wasn't a question. It was Morgana's observation.
"She's intelligent," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. "Talented. Interesting to talk to."
"Hmmm."
"And the workshop was educational. I learned valuable techniques."
"Hmmm."
"And Abigail's work is exceptional. Worth studying."
"Azra'il."
"Yes?"
"You glanced at me before you promised you'd be back. Checking. As if you needed confirmation."
[She's got you.]
I was silent for a moment, knowing denial was futile when Morgana decided to be direct.
"Sarah is… interesting," I admitted at last.
"Interesting." There was obvious humour in her tone now. "You stopped breathing when she walked in. You became strangely polite during your conversations. And now you're 'interested'."
"Being polite is appropriate behaviour—"
"You had a philosophical discussion with a poison-maker yesterday about business models. You analysed a portfolio of curses with a saleswoman. Today you used 'please' and 'thank you' without a drop of sarcasm."
[True. Your speech pattern shifted significantly.]
"I was being respectful."
"You were being affected." Morgana wasn't hiding her smile now. "And there's nothing wrong with that."
"I'm not—" I started, then stopped. Because what exactly was I denying? "It's complicated."
"Feelings usually are."
"I wouldn't call them feelings. Yet. It's… interest. Curiosity. She is different from anyone I've met in Bilgewater. Different from most people in general."
"And pretty," Morgana added, her tone casual.
I felt a heat rise in my face. "That's… a subjective observation."
"Of course. Like the fact you glanced at her approximately twenty times in the last hour. Also subjective?"
[It was twenty-three. But she was close.]
[Just keeping an accurate record.]
"Perhaps," I admitted finally, "I noticed. A few things. About her. That are… not unpleasant."
Morgana let out a laugh, genuine and warm. "'Not unpleasant'. What a romantic declaration."
"I am not trying to be romantic!"
"I know. It's part of the charm." She looked at me, her expression softening. "It's alright, Azra'il. To be drawn to someone. To want to know them better. You don't have to rationalise or explain it. Just… let it happen."
"And if it's complicated?"
"It's already complicated. We are travellers. She lives in Bilgewater. Eventually, we will leave. Distance and circumstance are a given. The question is: is it worth it anyway?"
I thought of Sarah's smile. Of the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about craft. Of the smell of apple and cinnamon that still lingered in my memory.
"…maybe it is."
"Then that's enough. For now."
We walked a few more steps in silence. Then, because apparently self-censorship was not my speciality today:
"And you?"
Morgana glanced at me. "Me what?"
"You're giving me advice about… situations. But when was the last time you were even interested in someone?"
There was a pause. A long one.
[OH. You actually went there. Brave. Or stupid. Possibly both.]
"That's different," Morgana said, and was that something in her tone? Defensiveness? Embarrassment?
"How is it different?"
"I am—" she paused, clearly searching for words. "My situation is more… complex."
"Complex as in 'I have no experience and don't know how to handle it'?"
Absolute silence now.
I looked at her, and was that a blush? On Morgana? The ancient immortal? The perpetually composed mother-figure?
[Detecting facial temperature elevation in Morgana. Embarrassment confirmed.]
"I have not—" Morgana started, then stopped. Restarted, "My experience or lack thereof is not relevant to—"
"Oh, so you have no experience," I concluded, with obvious satisfaction. "Interesting. Very interesting."
"Azra'il."
"You are giving me advice on attraction and relationships when you yourself have never—"
"I don't need personal experience to recognise when someone is obviously smitten—"
"But it would help to have some credibility on the subject—"
"I have centuries of observation—"
"Observation is not participation."
"This is ridiculous."
"You started it!"
We stopped in the middle of the street, two people at an impasse over who was more embarrassed.
Morgana looked at me. I looked back. And then, simultaneously, we both looked away.
"This has got weird," I muttered.
"Agreed," Morgana replied, her voice carefully neutral.
"Truce?"
"Truce."
We continued walking, now both staring fixedly ahead, refusing to make eye contact. After approximately forty seconds of completely mortified silence, Morgana spoke. "For the record: my lack of personal experience does not invalidate my observation that you clearly like the red-haired girl."
"And for my record," I replied, still not looking at her, "your lack of experience explains why your advice is theoretically sound but practically vague."
"Fair."
"Fair."
More silence. Then, because apparently neither of us knew when to quit:
"At least I admitted I'm interested," I said.
"You took five hours and three denials before admitting it."
"It's still better than centuries of complete avoidance."
"I am not avoiding—"
"Morgana. You are thousands of years old. And you have zero romantic experience."
"My priorities were different—"
"Your priority was avoiding emotional discomfort."
"TRUCE," Morgana repeated, louder now. "Remembering the truce we declared literally one minute ago."
"...right. Truce. My apologies."
"Apology accepted."
We arrived at The Choked Serpent in a silence that was 70% mutual embarrassment and 30% stubborn refusal to admit defeat.
Tahn looked at us as we entered. "You two look flustered."
"We had… a discussion," I offered.
"About?"
"Personal matters," Morgana said quickly.
"Very personal," I added.
Tahn studied us. "You do realise you're both red?"
"We are not—" we began simultaneously, then stopped.
He made that gurgling sound. "Whatever it was, must've been amusing for outside observers."
"We're going to our rooms," Morgana declared.
"Excellent idea," I agreed.
We went up the stairs in a determined silence. In the hallway, before entering our separate rooms, we paused.
"Azra'il?"
"Yes?"
"You… made a valid point. About experience."
"You too. About me being obvious."
"A draw?"
"A mutually awkward draw."
"The best kind."
We went into our rooms.
[Ancient immortal Morgana embarrassed by lack of romantic experience. You embarrassed by being far too obvious. No one won. Everyone lost. Perfect.]
I threw myself on the bed, covering my face with my arm.
[You have centuries of accumulated experience. She has zero. And yet she acts as if she knows better.]
[But your mind is not. You remember everything. Every relationship. Every marriage. Which makes it even funnier that you're stumbling over a red-haired girl.]
[Complicated.]
[But it doesn't change the fact you have infinitely more experience than Morgana. And she was giving you advice. The audacity.]
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Author's Note:
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Right, a quick note because this needs to be said.
Yes, Morgana, ancient immortal, powerful, and wise, has never kissed anyone.
Never been kissed. Zero. No practical experience whatsoever.
And yet she spent the end of the last chapter giving romantic advice to Azra'il.
Meanwhile, Azra'il has had every kind of relationship imaginable:
from a chill, Stardew Valley level romance 🌱
to some strange and dangerous affairs (yes, she's been involved with women like Esdeath… questionable decisions were made).
And now this same Azra'il is all polite, confused, and flustered over a redhead who understands metallurgy.
The irony is beautiful.
Serious question:
👉 what did you all think of Morgana having never been kissed?
Iconic? Funny? Does it fit her character?
Comment. Feed this chaotic author 😈