@generaldarius
Darius knew he was being rather harsh with regards to himself, in an obdurate and frankly demeaning way—but after much reflection, he had come to terms with his age and so liked to throw it at other people’s faces in his own understated way.
He never did it so much so as to sound as if he was complaining all the damn time about his ruined knees and his wretched lumbago—if that was the case, then he would be like the Hangnail on the Toe of Noxus; nothing but aggravation and irrelevance, ready to be clipped at a moment’s notice.
Most of those who worked under his direct wing would jab back, but people who knew nothing about him outside of his reputation would often sputter or experience a sudden burst of color in their face. Caitlyn did quite well with herself by smiling at him indulgently—oh yes, you are old, perhaps I should say you were there when the Iceborn pranced about the grounds, pestering feeble races and spreading destruction like a yeast infection— and he cracked a smile back.
His cheeks felt rickety. Smiling was a feat of engineering that only few people left on Runeterra could achieve now. Quite contrary to some of the more sordid tales spun recently regarding his person, he didn’t smile, laugh or dance when he killed someone.
Their conversation was probably being observed, if not recorded. Obviously, given her posture and change in words, some delicatesse was called for; a mistake on his part. Compared to her, he went about their conversation stomping around with concrete feet, making as much noise and fuss like some prehistoric Yordle creature.
He sipped his whiskey primly.
“Congratulations, Sheriff, it is quite a grand achievement.” He executes the joke adroitly with a perfectly straight face, in the way only someone who hoped to have one day become a father would say; perhaps he wrote all of these poor jokes in a little notebook, and practiced it all in front of a mirror. “I imagine you face the sort of plateau that I encountered soon after my… restructuring of Noxian society; that is to say, what now? Would there be a retirement in it for you? I know your society has some structure towards that endeavor.”
She can see him smile, and the way his expression then faltered slightly as he considered the pull to his features he found himself unfamiliar with. She could relate, could understand so well how it seemed to be uncomfortable within one’s public face, knowing the mask of necessity never sits well on a private person’s face. She’s had practice, mostly from necessity (and, in a small part, from people who brought out the better of her, and made her feel comfortable with herself), but it was still the same. She understood how difficult it could be to relax when one had a role to perform, when one was watched and assessed as you went about one’s role.
That was the rub, wasn’t it? They were always being watched. Being up on a pedestal tended to have that effect. He was a General of Noxus, a significant figure of power in the grand political spectrum, someone with a fearsome reputation as much as a figure of legend and hushed speculation. And she, for all that she called herself ‘merely a civil servant’, was still the Sheriff of Piltover, and one that in many minds had eclipsed all others who had held the title previously; she was The Sheriff, and always had been. She may not hold the sway in Parliament, but she had spoken to criminals and chem-barons as much as princes, captains, queens and generals, and somehow it was the face-to-face interactions that saw more done, more changed, more known in and for Piltover. She put in legwork to get things done, and that had elevated her in the eyes of the people. The two of them were being watched, always, by those keen to see what new portion of history was being written in their backyard, by those who held awe, fear, respect for them, or by those who wished to see them falter and fail. There were always eyes.
She was off the clock and had a drink in her hand, but she was still mindful of the eyes, and the expectations, and how damn difficult it could be to relax.
She exhales over her drink, then nods at his question, at the weight to it. “‘Retirement’. Gods, that’s a dirty word. Yes, of course, there are structures in place, of course, but…” She pulls a face, and sips at her cider, like she needs it to galvanize her. “Who could possibly replace me? And, more to the point, what would I even do on stepping down?” It has bothered her, yes, and she has come up with contingencies in case she dies in the line of duty, but the idea of her Not Being Sheriff is one she has been doing her best to ignore. It looms, these days, as more of her hair turns white.
Has he considered the same? Is there any option for an old soldier? Would there be any choice, or could he even consider anything other than dying for Noxus, in Noxus’ service? They’re stubborn old dogs, Noxians. She should know, her grandmother was one of them, and the same stubbornness is settled in her own patriotic veins for Piltover.
Caitlyn hums, and shakes her head. Waving her free hand to clear the air of such maudlin thinking. “For the time being, my friend, the ‘what now’ is a focus on the day to day. Training new recruits. Ensuring the health and fitness of myself and all those who wear the badge. A continuation of Piltover’s law and order. Paperwork. Gods, the paperwork. It is the one constant I can rely on to keep me busy.” She cocks her head at him. “And today, here we are, at The Grand, with drinks in hand, and several years’ worth of discussion and gossip to exchange.” She gestures further into the building, to the doorways marked for the casino floor, for the game rooms, and - ultimately - for places a little further away from the crowds, where they can be themselves without masks or pressures. “I at least must insist I show you around. The Grand has become more than it has been, last you were here.”
