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As the proverb goes, curiosity killed the cat. But observing and overhearing is her duty.
Fumes, rats and woes of Zaun do not reach the upper city. Rumours, however, sometimes do. They rise from the depths: tales of a miracle healer, the last hope.
It sounds fairly ominous, Lest thinks. Knowing Zaun and its ways of survival, most likely he is a heartless fraudster or a mad scientist with such dangerous methods that only the desperate dare to resort to his experiments.
The intelligence she is gathering for Mel quickly becomes tainted with unreliable half-truths with increasingly disturbing undertones. Someone saw him walking through the slums, and addicts and beggars clutched pleadingly at his cloak; others, on the contrary, insist that the dim streets were empty, implying that even those who had nothing to lose were hiding in fear. Some believe that the terrible beast from the Stillwater prison is his unleashed curse or creation; some deny it as a mere unfortunate coincidence.
Miracles and monsters share the same nature, after all. Better be cautious when finding out the inexplicable and the unknown.
Lest lurks in the shadows. Graceful, soft-pawed, seeing perfectly in the dark. Her long ears catch every whisper and rustle. And here it is: a peculiar sound of metal in the Herald's quiet footsteps. No one else's knees creak in such a way.
Mel likes to weave gold into her hair, especially when Lest's nimble claws help her. Lest herself wears pieces of jewelry in the folds of her turban. Yet she recognizes this familiar sheen in the healer's own flesh, as if his delicate collarbone is pure silver and the knuckles of his thin fingers are brass. Others might call bodily transformations unnatural and unsettling; she, however, is strangely fascinated with how this has been possible.
Feeling that someone follows him, Viktor turns around. His eyes under the hood are full of pain of all humanity, observed from some otherworldly point of view, too immense for a mortal mind, even a genius one. Lingering for a few moments with a silent "Jayce?" on his lips, he leaves, leaning on a crooked staff.
No, this Herald doesn't seem to be a wicked deceiver. Watching him, Lest ponders whether to advise Salo to seek his help. Even if the healer turns out to be unable to cure Salo's paralyzed legs, at least it could be enlightening for one of the richest aristocrats of Piltover to visit here and witness the miserable condition of the lower city. To feel – personally – what it's like to depend on some greater power's mercy. All the more so for a member of the Council.
***
...Urban legends are not easily forgotten. The dream of a peaceful utopia may have been destroyed, the trust in miracles may have been lost, but many still tell of a mysterious cloaked man – seen at night in the smog of the bleakest districts of Zaun, followed hopefully and timidly by the sick and starving. Leading them inside heavy iron gates instead of bright gardens, sure, but this little difference hardly matters to the desperate.
Again, Lest hears the clang of metal in his footsteps, except now it's steel boots. The cloak is undoubtedly the same: she recognizes its smell – not one, but two people, and halls of the Academy – albeit weaker, wearing off. Her amber eyes with vertical pupils peer into the darkness, and a burning gaze looks back, as if mirroring their golden flash.
Her tail curls and freezes in alarm. The towering figure is frankly terrifying.
"I've seen you in Salo's memories," Viktor's mechanical voice thunders. "Perhaps you blame yourself for sending him towards a tragic fate. Do not. Your intentions were good... just like mine."
And in these last few words, despite the emotionless tone, there is that same sorrow.