POV - Azra'il
I woke to the sound of someone being stabbed.
At least, that's what it sounded like. A sharp, furious cry, followed by a string of creative profanities in at least three different languages, then the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting something hollow, possibly a head against a barrel, and finally, rough laughter and the dragging of something being carried off. Probably a body. Possibly still alive. Hard to tell in Bilgewater, where the line between 'a lively pub brawl' and 'casual homicide' was thin enough to be invisible.
[Good morning, Captain. Welcome to your first full day in what the locals call 'paradise' and what anyone with a functioning sense of smell would call 'an architectural crime against humanity'. I trust you slept well, despite the charming sounds of casual violence, the occasional shouts of merchants selling 'fresh fish' that definitely died at least a week ago, and that strange rhythmic banging from the wall we share with the tavern, which I am choosing to believe is just someone fixing barrels and not… other activities.]
[Nothing so dramatic, unfortunately. Just the usual chaos. Three knife-fights in the vicinity, two of which ended with bodies being dumped into the sea, one of which apparently ended in a marriage—don't ask, I don't understand it either. A pirate ship arrived at four in the morning bringing cargo that is definitely not contraband because no one in Bilgewater would do something so scandalous. And the bells of Nagakabouros have chimed seventeen times, which according to pattern analysis means either a 'day of blessing' or 'someone very important has died'. Possibly both.]
I pulled on the clothes I had brought, simple, practical, designed not to draw attention, and approached the window. Outside, Bilgewater was waking up. Or more accurately, Bilgewater had never really slept, just shifted from 'daytime chaos' to 'night-time chaos' and was now shifting back again.
The smell… Ah, the smell.
Last night, I had thought the stench of Bilgewater was bad. But last night, I was exhausted from the journey, queasy from the ship's constant motion, and my senses were dulled by the initial sensory overload. This morning, well-rested and with fully functional senses, I could appreciate the true 'magnitude' of the olfactory offence that was Bilgewater.
It was a symphony. A masterpiece. An olfactory composition so complex and meticulously horrific it bordered on the artistic.
Layer one: Fish. Not fresh fish. Fish that had decided life was overrated and chosen decomposition as a career path. Fish being gutted, fish being sold, fish being left in the sun because refrigeration was for the weak.
Layer two: Salt and sea-spray. This would be pleasant under normal circumstances, but here it just served as the base for all the other layers, like a canvas on which a psychopathic child had decided to paint using only shades of brown and greenish-brown.
Layer three: Human waste. 'Sewerage' was not a word Bilgewater knew. The concept of 'plumbing' was science fiction. If you needed to go, you… went. Alleys served perfectly well. The ocean would eventually wash it away. Probably.
Layer four: Alcohol. Spilt rum, sour ale, spirits of such dubious quality they probably violated the laws of chemistry. The smell of permanent fermentation.
Layer five: Blood. Old and new. From humans, from animals, from things that were technically both or neither. Bilgewater bled constantly, and the smell of oxidised iron was as common as salt.
And under it all, penetrating every molecule of air, the inescapable scent of the ocean. Not the clean, romantic ocean of paintings. The real, brutal, salty ocean, full of dead things and things that killed, indifferent to humanity and its fragile concepts of hygiene.
[Complete atmospheric analysis from last night. Chemical compounds detected: 247. Potentially toxic compounds: 89. Definitely toxic compounds: 34. Compounds that technically qualify as biological weapons in three nations: 7. My recommendation: stop breathing. Alternative: accept that your lungs will never be the same again.]
[Ah yes. Allow me to present my masterpiece.]
And then, in my mind's eye, a map materialised.
It wasn't a normal map. It was a complete three-dimensional reconstruction of Bilgewater, built from visual, acoustic, thermal, and even… olfactory data? Eos, as always, was full of surprises.
[Approximately 85% of the central landmass and structures are connected. I spent the night mapping while you slept. Main routes, back-alleys, markets, danger zones, faction territories, all catalogued and available on your mental map. The remaining 15% are the satellite isles around the central core and the subterranean channels. I will require physical exploration to complete those.]
[I have always been. You only notice when it's convenient. Furthermore, I've marked all the alleys where bodies were found this morning. Six in total. I've also marked the taverns with the highest mortality rates; surprisingly, The Choked Serpent has one of the lowest, which explains why Tahn has survived long enough to retire from piracy.]
The map floated in my consciousness like a piece of digital art. The central part of Bilgewater—the chaotic tangle of docks, taverns, markets, and stacked slums—was mapped in impressive detail. I could see main routes marked in green, dangerous alleys in red, points of interest in blue, areas controlled by different groups in varying shades.
[The small islands around the main archipelago. There are approximately twenty-three smaller isles that are technically part of Bilgewater but require a boat for access. Some are used for storage, some for… let's say, 'activities that even Bilgewater prefers to keep out of sight', and some are just rocks with wreckage on them. There's also a considerable network of tunnels and subterranean channels under the city, some natural, some artificially expanded. They have air pockets, are used for smuggling and escape, and are definitely not full of people-eating creatures. Probably. Still mapping. The accuracy-failure rate in that area is… significant.]
[Rumours only. Mostly. There are stories about things that live in the deeps beneath Bilgewater. Nagakabouros is a serpent goddess, after all. Where do you think her… daughters… live?]
I decided not to dwell on that.
[Precisely. A top-tier GPS, as you so eloquently requested yesterday. You can now navigate this labyrinth without getting lost, impress the natives with your impossible knowledge of the local geography, and avoid alleys where the probability of being stabbed exceeds 80%. You're welcome.]
[Only sometimes? I'm offended.]
I went down to the main floor of The Choked Serpent, where the smell of food, a term used loosely, mingled with the permanent stench of spilt ale and damp wood. Morgana was already sitting at a table near the window, looking out at the street with an expression that flickered between anthropological fascination and horror.
"Morning, Mother Raven," I greeted, dropping into the chair opposite her. "Sleep well? Did the romantic sounds of casual violence disturb your rest?"
She gave me that look, the look that said 'you're making jokes about urban trauma before breakfast, is that appropriate?', but there was a hint of humour in the corners of her eyes.
"I slept surprisingly well, considering the rooms next door apparently house either very enthusiastic ghosts or activities I'd rather not visualise," she replied, her tone dry. "And you?"
"Like a baby. A baby in a war zone, but a baby nonetheless."
Tahn approached, carrying two mugs of something that was technically tea but smelt as if the plant had died under questionable circumstances and then been left to ferment in salt water. He put the mugs down in front of us with a thud.
"Breakfast," he announced, that wet, bubbling voice that came from having an octopus's head. "Fish porridge. Bread that is only just bread if you don't look too closely. And tea that probably won't kill you. Probably."
[Analysis: The porridge contains 34% actual fish, 22% starch of questionable origin, 18% salt, 11% unfiltered seawater, and 15% 'best not to ask'. Nutritional value: surprisingly adequate. Risk of poisoning: moderate. Taste: predictably awful.]
"Delicious," I said, picking up my spoon. "Exactly what I imagined when I dreamed of Bilgewater cuisine."
Tahn made that sound that could have been a laugh or a throat-clearing itch. It was genuinely impossible to tell. "Are you two going out today?"
"We intend to explore," Morgana replied, more diplomatically than I would have been. "Get to know the city. Understand its… dynamic."
"Its 'dynamic'," Tahn repeated, his tentacles twitching in a pattern I was beginning to recognise as cynical amusement. "Is that a polite way of saying 'we're going to wander around one of the most dangerous places in Runeterra with no real understanding of the dangers and hope we survive'?"
"Basically," I agreed, tasting the porridge and immediately regretting it. It tasted of salt, dead fish, and disappointment. "But we have advantages."
"Such as?"
"Superior intelligence, fast reflexes, and an impressive ability to pretend we know what we're doing."
Morgana gave me a light kick under the table.
"We have experience navigating complex urban environments," she corrected, shooting me a 'behave yourself' look. "And we intend to be cautious."
Tahn didn't look convinced, but he pulled out a map, a real map, made of yellowed paper stained with salt and time, and spread it on the table.
"Bilgewater," he said, pointing with the mechanical claw which creaked softly, "is not a city in the sense you know. There are no organised boroughs. No planned districts. It's organic. Chaotic. But there are… territories."
He traced areas with the claw. "The Docks. Where it all begins. Trade, legal and illegal. Most ships moor there. Merchants, pirates, all mix together. Violence is common but usually has a reason, someone trying to steal cargo, disputes over payment, that sort of thing. Avoid looking rich or weak."
"Noted."
"The Black Market," he continued, pointing to a more central area. "Not literally black. It's called that because… well, because everything you shouldn't be able to buy, you can buy there. Rare ingredients, weapons, information, services I won't even describe. The merchants there are clever and dangerous. Don't try to cheat them. They eat tourists for breakfast. Literally, sometimes."
[Making a note. Black Market = do not eat anything offered for free.]
"The Slaughter-Docks," he said, and something in his tone darkened. "It's… exactly what the name suggests. Carcasses. Sea monsters being butchered. Parts of creatures being sold for food, for alchemy, for rituals. It's brutal. It's bloody. It's Bilgewater in its essence. You'll hate it and you won't be able to look away."
"Sounds lovely," I muttered.
"Beyond that," Tahn continued, "it's not just about food, it's about… well, flesh of another kind. Prostitution. Violent games. Unofficial fighting pits. Avoid unless you have a very good reason. The Temple of Nagakabouros at the centre of it all, where the goddess judges the worthy and drowns the weak. And dozens of taverns, alleys, hideouts, each one controlled by someone, each with its own unwritten rules."
He looked at us with those immense yellow eyes. "Where do you plan to go today?"
"The docks first," I said. "Then the Black Market. Maybe the Slaughter-Docks if we have the stomach for it. We want to… absorb. Understand how the city works."
"And be back before nightfall," Morgana added, shooting me another 'don't make stupid plans' glare.
Tahn nodded slowly. "I'll give you one of my staff as a guide. Sylvia knows the—"
"We don't need one," I cut in gently. "We can find our way."
He blinked. Or at least, it looked like it. It was hard to read facial expressions on an octopus's head. "You'll be lost in five minutes."
"We won't."
"Bilgewater is a labyrinth. Even the natives get lost sometimes."
"I have an excellent sense of direction."
Morgana coughed, which sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh. "She really does. It's… unnervingly accurate."
"You've been here for less than twelve hours," Tahn insisted, his tentacles agitated with what I was starting to recognise as exasperation. "How could you possibly—"
"Trust me," I said, smiling in a way I hoped was reassuring and probably just looked slightly psychopathic. "We'll be fine. And if we get lost, which we won't, we will come back and humbly accept your judgment."
[And I will have to listen to 'I told you so' for the rest of our stay,] Eos added cheerfully.
[An important technical detail.]
Tahn sighed, a wet, resigned sound. "Fine. But at least take some appropriate clothes. You stand out too much."
And that was how, ten minutes later, Morgana and I found ourselves dressed in what Tahn described as "local fashion" and what I would describe as "lightly-used pirate cosplay".
For me, it was threadbare canvas trousers in a dark brown, a salt-stained white cotton shirt that had definitely seen better days, a leather waistcoat that had more scars than a war veteran, and boots that were functional but looked like they had trod in absolutely everything the ocean had to offer and then some things the ocean had rejected.
"I need a hat," I announced, studying my reflection in a grimy window.
"No," Morgana said firmly.
"And an eyepatch. Just for the aesthetic."
"Absolutely not."
"But look at me," I insisted, gesturing to my figure. "I'm 80% of the way to being a legitimate pirate. All I'm missing are the accessories."
Tahn made that laugh/phlegm sound again and disappeared for a moment. When he returned, he was holding a broad-brimmed hat, black and stained by time and use, and… yes, a leather eyepatch.
"You can't be serious," Morgana said, looking at him in betrayal.
"If she's going to stand out anyway for being a kid," Tahn said pragmatically, "at least let her look like a local kid. Half the street urchins here wear eyepatches. Lost eyes in fights, accidents, or they just think it looks intimidating. And hats are standard for anyone who doesn't want to get sunburnt."
I put on the hat. Perfect. I put on the eyepatch. Perfect.
"How do I look?"
[Like someone having a mid-life identity crisis, but doing it with style.]
Morgana looked at me for a long moment. Her face went through several emotions motherly disapproval, reluctant amusement, resignation, before finally landing on something that looked dangerously close to poorly disguised pride.
"You look," she said slowly, "like someone who is going to cause trouble and blame it on academic research."
"That's the nicest compliment I've ever received."
As for Morgana, Tahn had given her ragged grey canvas trousers, which she examined as if they were an alien artefact, a simple long-sleeved shirt in a faded blue, and a long coat that had probably belonged to someone considerably larger but worked to hide her figure. Her black hair was tied in a low, practical bun that still looked impossibly elegant.
"I'm not used to trousers," she murmured, adjusting uncomfortably. "In Demacia, women of any standing always wear dresses. Trousers are… strange."
"Welcome to the current century," I said. "Wait, no. Welcome to Bilgewater, where no one cares what you wear as long as you're not weak enough to be robbed."
"Comforting."
Tahn looked us over, appraisingly. "Better. You still look like outsiders, but at least you don't look like rich outsiders. That reduces your chances of being mugged in the first five minutes from maybe 80% to just 60%."
"Your statistics are inspiring," I said.
"They're realistic. And remember: be back before nightfall. Bilgewater is worse at night. The things that move in the dark…" he paused, "…are worse than the things that move in the daylight."
"Noted. Avoid nocturnal monsters. Add to to-do list."
And then, finally, we left.
Stepping into the streets of Bilgewater in the morning, fully awake and with all senses firing, was like being hit in the face with a sociology textbook written by psychopaths and illustrated by artists with a deep fascination for viscera.
The sound was a constant cacophony. Merchants shouting. Metal on metal. Creaking ropes. Crashing waves. Rough laughter. Screams that could be of pain, pleasure, or just enthusiasm, impossible to distinguish. And always, always, the hoarse singing of sailors, melodies about seas, death, and women in distant ports.
The docks were the pulsating heart of it all. Ships of all sizes and states of decay were moored in a mess that defied any sense of organisation. Pirate ships with torn sails and blood-stained hulls. Merchant ships trying to look respectable and failing. Small fishing boats that looked as though they had survived more storms than their owners. And beyond them, larger and more menacing, warships from various nations that were 'officially' here for "patrol operations" and absolutely not to participate in the black market.
Cargo was being moved, wooden crates marked with symbols I didn't recognise, barrels dripping suspicious liquids, sacks that moved on their own (which was disturbing), and occasionally, cages containing creatures that were definitely not normal fish.
"Notice," I murmured to Morgana as we walked, "no one is checking the cargo. No customs. No fees. No inspections."
"Functional anarchy," Morgana replied, her eyes scanning the crowds with a motherly attention that never switched off. "But there is order. See, each captain has their crew controlling their own area. There are territories. Respect for strength. If someone tried to steal cargo, the retaliation would be immediate and brutal."
[Correct. Additional observation: approximately one quarter of the visible sailors are armed. The other half are concealing weapons. And the merchants? All armed. No one here trusts that civility will protect them.]
We passed vendors selling everything from exotic spices that promised "miraculous cures" to obviously fake treasure maps with the ink still fresh. One man was selling "genuine sea-drake scales" that were clearly just painted shells. Another was offering "blessed water of Nagakabouros" in dirty bottles that were probably filled from the nearest channel.
"Tourists must lose fortunes here daily," Morgana murmured.
"Bilgewater's economy: fifty per cent legitimate trade, fifty per cent an elaborate theatre of fraud," I agreed. "And everyone knows it. But it's part of the culture. If you're daft enough to fall for it, you deserve to lose the money. Natural selection applied to commercial transactions."
We continued through the docks, and the more we walked, the more I understood. Bilgewater was an ecosystem. Brutal, yes. Chaotic, absolutely. But there was a logic. Predators and prey, but all following the unwritten rules of survival.
We saw brawls break out fast, violent, over in seconds. The winner took what they wanted. The loser either got up and moved on or didn't get up at all. And the crowd? They simply moved around it, like water flowing around a rock. Indifference born not of cruelty, but of necessity. Everyone had their own problems. Everyone was fighting to keep moving, because to stop was to die.
[Astute anthropological observation. Also, don't look now, but we're being followed.]
[Since we left the tavern. Three individuals. Keeping their distance. Still deciding if we're worth the risk.]
[Awaiting. If they make a move, I will alert you. If not, they are just… reconnaissance. Bilgewater sizing up new fish in the tank.]
I did not look back. That would be a weakness. To admit I'd noticed would be to show fear. Instead, I continued to walk with confidence.
Morgana, of course, had noticed as well. Her eyes scanned the crowds with a fierce, motherly vigilance. But she too did not react. Just… adjusted her position to be slightly behind and to the left of me, an angle that would give her a view of any approaching threat.
We worked well together, I realised. No words necessary. Just a mutual understanding born of shared time and a trust built through situations where the alternative could have been a very unpleasant situation.
We spent an hour on the docks, absorbing, learning, cataloguing. And then, following the mental map that Eos had so generously provided, we headed further into the city, where the structures became denser, more precarious, more Bilgewater.
And we found the Black Market.