POV - Azra'il
Bilgewater's Black Market did not announce itself with elegant signs or facades. There were no grand portals or guards checking credentials. There was just an alleyway.
An alleyway that seemed to have been forgotten by the rest of the city, not by accident, but by a universal, tacit agreement that some things were better left without official oversight. The entrance was marked only by an oil lamp hanging from a rusted hook, swaying slightly in the salty breeze, and by a distinctive smell that Eos identified immediately.
[Olfactory analysis: Dried blood, exotic spices, something alchemical that should not exist in nature, and… is that incense made from controlled substances? Yes. Definitely. Welcome to the establishment where legality comes to die.]
Morgana paused at the entrance to the alley, studying it. Not with fear, because honestly, what here could threaten her? But with that expression I had learned to recognise as, "I'm about to have to stop Azra'il from doing something illegal and socially catastrophic."
"Azra'il," she began, a tone of preemptive motherly warning.
"Yes, Mother Raven?"
"Whatever you are planning—"
"I'm not planning anything."
"You are always planning something. Your brain doesn't switch off. So let me be clear: do not buy poisons to 'test on yourself'. Do not challenge merchants on the authenticity of their illegal products. Do not start academic debates on the ethics of the organ trade. And, for the love of all the Aspects, do not dissect anything in the middle of the street."
I blinked, innocently. "Those are very specific rules."
"Based on a deep and thorough knowledge of how you operate."
"You know me so well."
"It is simultaneously a blessing and a curse." She sighed. "Just… try not to cause an incident before luncheon?"
"I'll try. No promises."
"I'll take that as a victory."
We entered the alley. The transformation was immediate and surreal.
One moment, we were in "normal" Bilgewater, chaotic, violent, stinking, but at least visibly so. The next, we had crossed some invisible line and entered a territory where the already weak rules of civilisation had been completely abandoned in favour of pure pragmatism and remorseless capitalism.
The alley opened into an irregular courtyard surrounded by buildings that seemed to be leaning on each other for sheer structural stubbornness. Makeshift stalls, stained canvas tents, and wooden tables formed a claustrophobic labyrinth of illicit trade.
And the products… Oh, the products.
[Cataloguing visible items: 97 substances that are definitively illegal throughout Valoran, 33 magical artefacts of questionable origin, 12 things that are still technically alive but shouldn't be, 16 vials containing what appear to be preserved human organs, and… is that a cage with something looking back at us and I do not like how intelligent its eyes are.]
A merchant, human, probably, though with so many ritual scars it was hard to be certain, was selling vials of glowing liquid in shades of poisonous green and suspicious purple.
"Poisons!" he announced cheerfully, as if selling fresh flowers on a spring morning. "For all occasions! Quick death, slow death, painful death, death that looks like natural causes! Poison for food, for drink, for weapons! I have poisons that kill in seconds and poisons that take weeks as the victim slowly withers in agony!"
He took a dramatic pause, a genuine salesman's smile on his face.
"Today's specials: Widow's Tears, perfect for that inconvenient spouse! And Serpent's Kiss, ideal for romantic rivals! And, for preferred customers…" he leaned in conspiratorially, "I'm running a promotion: kill a whole family and get the mother-in-law poison for free!"
I stopped, fascinated.
"Azra'il," Morgana said, her tone a warning.
"Just looking."
"You have that 'dangerous scientific fascination' look."
"It's a perfectly normal look of healthy academic curiosity."
"There is no such thing as healthy academic curiosity about poisons. Especially not when you have a history of 'testing them on yourself to document the effects'."
"That was one time, and I had the antidote prepared."
"You turned purple."
"Temporarily! And the data was invaluable."
[I concur with Morgana on this one. You turned a lovely shade of violet for six hours. It was… memorable.]
[I offered it anyway. Freely. As a gift.]
"Azra'il," Morgana repeated, more firmly.
"Fine, fine. No buying poisons." I paused. "Today."
"Azra'il."
"No buying poisons this week. That's my final offer."
She pulled me gently but firmly away from the poison vendor, who was watching us with a merchant's interest as a potential customer slipped away.
"Come back any time!" he shouted after us. "I do discounts on bulk purchases! Bring friends! The more, the merrier the price!"
[What a charming promotional campaign. His marketing department deserves a raise.]
[If it did, it would be absolutely terrifying. Imagine: "Bilgewater, where your dreams come to die, but at least the death is on sale!"]
We continued deeper into the market, and with every step, there was something new and deeply questionable.
A Vastayan woman, serpentine from the waist down, her iridescent scales reflecting light in hypnotic patterns, was selling "custom curses" from behind a table covered in small vials, each glowing with its own sickly light.
"Curses!" she hissed, literally, like a talking snake. "Curses for all your needs! I have impotence! Premature baldness! Eternal nightmares! Teeth falling out one by one! And, my bestseller…" she held up a vial of pulsing yellow liquid, "uncontrollable flatulence at important social moments! All tested, all guaranteed! Satisfaction or your money back, if you survive to complain!"
"The flatulence curse," I began, genuinely curious, "seems disproportionately not as cruel compared to the other options."
The Vastayan smiled, showing pointed fangs. "Ah, but it is genius. It leaves no physical marks. It cannot be traced back to you. But it destroys the victim's social life completely. They lose their job. Their friends. Their dignity. Slowly. Painfully. It is psychological torture via involuntary bodily functions. A masterpiece, if I do say so myself."
"Huh." I processed this. "So it's socially devastating but physically harmless. Technically more ethical than 'eternal nightmares' or 'falling-out teeth', which cause actual physical harm. But psychologically perhaps crueller because the victim has no explanation for their suffering beyond constant public humiliation. An interesting product portfolio. You've clearly thought about the spectrum of cruelty versus permanence of damage."
Morgana stared at me. "Are you analysing curses now?"
"Comparative analysis of effectiveness and ethical implications. It's fascinating from a—"
"You've turned a black market for curses into a study on the morality of magical torture."
"Everything is a study if you observe it with the right mindset."
The Vastayan looked delighted. "You're an interesting customer! Care to buy? I have a discount for young academics with an appreciation for the nuances of suffering!"
"Tempting, but I'll decline today. Thank you for the educational presentation of your work."
"Come back if you change your mind! Curses don't expire!"
We passed a merchant selling "bottled dreams", literally, people's dreams stolen during their sleep and preserved in smoked-glass vials that glowed with a soft, ethereal light.
"Experience other people's dreams!" he announced, gesturing dramatically. "Live fantasies you never had! Explore nightmares that aren't your own! Just uncap the vial, inhale, and enter the dream! I have dreams of love, adventure, conquest, and…" he leaned in, his voice dropping conspiratorially, "some very private dreams from certain public figures I'd rather not name, but they involve a surprising amount of tentacles."
"There is a chance you'll be trapped in the dream forever," he added casually, as an afterthought. "But it's rare. Only twenty per cent of cases. Adds an element of thrill to the experience! A life without risk isn't worth living!"
"Twenty per cent," I repeated, processing. "One in five users get trapped in someone else's dream permanently?"
"Correct! But think of the bright side: if you do get trapped, at least it's in an interesting dream! Better than reality, perhaps?"
"That's nihilistic philosophy disguised as dangerous-product marketing."
"It works, doesn't it?"
[He has a point. A terrible one, but technically valid.]
There was also a man selling magical contracts, scrolls that shone with pulsing runes, piled on a table next to a quill that seemed to be made of bone and an inkwell filled with something red that was hopefully ink and not blood.
"Magically binding contracts!" he proclaimed. "Perfect for business deals when you don't trust your partner! Sign both of you, and the contract ensures fulfilment through an automatic curse for violation! Punishment options include: sudden death, transformation into a frog, loss of your preferred sense, or a constant feeling of being watched for the rest of your life! Prices vary by severity of consequence!"
[That is simultaneously dreadful and ingenious. A decentralised contract enforcement system through the threat of supernatural consequences. Why hasn't Piltover thought of this?]
[Boring. Automatic curses are more efficient. Immediate results, no legal appeals.]
[Thank you. I consider that a compliment.]
And then we saw something that made even Morgana pause with an expression of genuine discomfort.
A merchant, an old man with dead eyes and a smile that didn't reach any other part of his face, selling "mementos of deceased loved ones."
Which meant, I realised with a simultaneous growing horror and morbid fascination, that he was selling parts of dead people.
"I have fingers!" he announced cheerfully, pointing at preserved jars. "Teeth! Locks of hair! Eyes preserved in amber, look how they shine! Perfect for necromantic rituals or just as a sentimental keepsake of the dearly departed! I also take special orders if you have a specific person in mind who hasn't passed yet but you're planning on changing that soon!"
"That is deeply disturbing," Morgana murmured, and coming from her, who had seen millennia of terrible things, that was a significant statement.
"That is deeply disturbing and likely profitable," I corrected, observing how many people were stopping at his stall. "Look at the foot traffic. There's a real market for this. Which raises questions about how many amateur necromancers there are in Bilgewater and whether we should be concerned about a potential undead outbreak."
"You're analysing the commercial viability of selling corpse-parts."
"Someone has to ask the hard questions about the urban-necromancy economy."
"The questions do not need to be asked."
"I strongly disagree. Knowledge is power. Even morbid and socially unacceptable knowledge. Especially that kind, in fact."
She covered her face with her hand, that universal gesture of 'why is my child like this and how do I explain her to normal people'.
We continued exploring, and I was about to suggest we had seen enough of the Black Market when I found something that made my alchemist's heart leap.
Herbs.
In the furthest corner of the market, partially hidden behind a stack of wooden crates and protected by a curtain of worn beads, was a stall that emanated the unmistakable smell of rare plants and exotic reagents.
Not common herbs. Not the parsley and basil you'd find at any Piltovan market. Rare herbs. Exotic. Some I recognised only from ancient alchemy texts I had read. Some I had never seen in person in any of the regions we had travelled.
Gnarled roots from trees that no longer grew on the Valoran continent. Dried flowers from plants that only bloomed under a full moon in the poisonous swamps of Noxus. Crystallised leaves that shone with a faint bioluminescence, likely from fungi from the Shadow Isles, which raised questions about how exactly the merchant had acquired them. Fungi in shades of deep purple and electric blue that screamed 'I am poisonous AND hallucinogenic AND possibly sentient'. Seeds of something that looked like it had thorns and an attitude.
I moved towards the stall like an alchemist to rare reagents. No, like an addict to a drug. More urgent than that.
The merchant behind the stall was an old man, very old, with skin the colour of ancient parchment and cloudy eyes that probably didn't see much physically but seemed to perceive everything in ways normal sight could not. He was sitting in a chair that looked to have been constructed from interwoven whale bones (because of course it was, this was Bilgewater), smoking a long pipe that exhaled purple smoke with a sweetish and definitely illegal smell.
"Welcome, youngling," he said, his voice like stones rolling in a wooden barrel. "I see the interest in your eyes. A connoisseur's interest. Not some foolish tourist who wants to buy 'magic weed' to impress their friends. You know what you're looking at."
I studied the displayed herbs, mentally cataloguing them with Eos's help.
"You have Black Mandrake Root," I observed, pointing to a twisted root that looked disturbingly like a person in a silent scream. "Genuine. Not the counterfeit variety that Piltovan merchants try to sell by dyeing common mandrake black. I can see the growth patterns in the fissures; this one grew in soil contaminated by dark magic, probably an old graveyard or battlefield."
The old man's cloudy eyes narrowed with interest and respect. "Go on."
"And that," I pointed to dried flowers of a deep, ethereal blue, "is Moon Trumpet. From Ionia. Only blooms once every decade under a full moon during an eclipse. Used in lucid dreaming and astral projection potions. Exceedingly rare." I continued cataloguing. "Noxian Blood-lily, for potions of temporary strength but at the cost of one's sanity. Shadow-thorn from the Shadow Isles, a necromantic reagent. A Ghost-Cap mushroom that's still alive, which is impressive because they die within hours of harvesting unless kept in a specific environment of damp and darkness."
I paused, looking at a spiky, pulsating seed in a sealed jar, isolated from the other herbs as if it were too dangerous to touch its neighbours.
"And that," I said slowly, "is illegal in literally every known nation in Runeterra."
The old man grinned, showing almost-empty gums with only three remaining teeth. "Only if you're caught."
[Analysis of seed: Identification confirmed. Noxian Strangler-Vine seed. When planted in soil near a source of body heat, germinates in 48 hours, grows at an exponential rate, roots through a living human body, using the victim as fertiliser while maintaining consciousness until the final stages. Was banned in all nations after the Basilich Incident where an entire ornamental garden of a Noxian aristocrat gained sentience, consumed the entire family during a formal dinner, and had to be burned with magical fire for a solid week. If planted incorrectly or used as a pure alchemical reagent, it is a fascinating component for potions of accelerated plant growth and tissue regeneration remedies.]
[Of course you do. You collect dangerous things as a hobby.]
"You know your reagents," the old man said, genuine approval in his tone. "Not many your age would know a Moon Trumpet from a common water-bell. And fewer still would recognise…" he gestured to the forbidden seed, "that."
"I know my trade," I replied simply. "How much," I asked, keeping my voice casual, "for that seed?"
"Azra'il," Morgana said, her tone an immediate warning.
"It's for research."
"It's for something that will probably get us kicked out of three countries simultaneously if anyone finds out you possess it."
"Only if we use it wrong. I'll use it right. For legitimate alchemical purposes. Tissue regeneration. Accelerated growth of medicinal plants. Nothing of the... you know, consuming-people-alive sort."
"Your definition of 'using it right' and 'legitimate purposes' frightens me deeply."
The old man laughed, that dry, hoarse laugh of someone who has seen it all and is no longer impressed by anything. "The child has spirit. And knowledge. I like it. I like it a lot." He took a long drag on his pipe. "Five hundred gold pieces."
I almost choked. "Five hundred? For one seed?"
"For a forbidden seed that could get me hanged in five different nations if the authorities found out I possess it. For a seed that's the last of its kind I've managed to acquire after the original garden was burned down. For a seed whose value is only recognised by true connoisseurs, not idiot tourists. Risk has a price. Rarity has a price. Forbidden knowledge…" he smiled, "has a high price."
Fair point. But five hundred gold was absurd. It was time to haggle.
"Two hundred," I offered, keeping my voice firm.
"Four hundred and fifty," he countered without a blink, without hesitation.
"Two hundred and fifty. And I don't mention to anyone that I saw at least six other items at this stall that the Piltovan Guard would pay handsomely to know exist. And that Demacia would send Paladins to confiscate. And that Noxus… well, Noxus would probably try to buy everything, but it would still be an inconvenience for you."
He grinned more widely, seeming genuinely amused. "Threats? From a child?"
"Observations. From a connoisseur who recognises when a merchant has an inventory that could cause significant problems if the wrong people found out." I smiled back, sweet and innocent. "I also noticed that that Mandrake Root is starting to rot at the tips. See the discolouration? Another month, maybe six weeks, and it will be worthless. And those Ghost-Caps? They're losing their bioluminescence. Meaning: they were harvested at least three days ago, probably four. Their market value is dropping by the hour. You need to sell before they spoil completely and become useless reagents."
The cloudy eyes studied my face for a long moment. Then he let out a genuine, deep, appreciative laugh.
"You're a connoisseur and a haggler. And young. Far too young to have the knowledge you have." He took another thoughtful puff.
"Three hundred coin. Final. I take the seed, those Moon Trumpet flowers before they completely wither, and a generous handful of Shadow-thorn. You get rid of inventory that's going to spoil anyway and make a reasonable profit that covers your risk. I get rare reagents that are impossible to find outside of a black market. Everyone's happy. A fair deal."
There was a moment of silence as he appraised me with those eyes that saw more than they should.
Then he laughed again, shaking his head. "You'll go far, child. Or die spectacularly trying. Don't know which. But it will be interesting to watch." He held out a bony hand, stained with what could be ink or could be poison or could be both. "Deal. Three hundred coin. You're robbing me blind, but I respect the haggle. I've had that stock too long anyway."
I looked at Morgana with my best 'daughter pleading for permission to do something questionable' eyes. She sighed. That deep, long, resigned sigh of a mother who knows she's already lost the battle before it's even begun.
"You're going to use this for something that will give me more grey hairs, aren't you?"
"Statistically probable."
"And you're going to be careful? Extremely, exceedingly careful?"
"I always am."
"You turned purple."
"That was ONE TIME and I had the antidote prepared and the data was completely worth the temporary discomfort!"
[You also turned green that time in Zaun.]
[Just keeping accurate records.]
Morgana sighed again, but she pulled a pouch of coins from somewhere in the folds of her makeshift pirate clothes. "Three hundred coin. But if you turn our room into a murderous carnivorous garden, I am dragging you back to Demacia by the ear and you will spend an entire month doing community service at the orphanage explaining to innocent children why irresponsible science is bad."
"I accept those terms completely and without reservation."
The payment was made, Morgana counting the coins carefully while the old man watched with the patience of someone who had all the time in the world. He wrapped up my purchases in dark, oiled paper with the efficiency of one who had decades of practice in discreet illegal transactions, tying the parcel with twine that smelt of tar and spice.
I tucked the parcel carefully into my bag, which had a special dimensional preservation compartment courtesy of Eos to keep reagents fresh indefinitely.
"A pleasure doing business with a real connoisseur," the old man said, lighting his pipe again. "Come back any time. I get new stock in every week. Things that would make a Demacian priestess faint from puritanical horror. Special prices for customers who actually know what they're buying."
"I will seriously consider coming back."
[You will definitely be back. Probably next week.]
[Realistic.]
We left the Black Market twenty minutes later, my bag full of rare and morally questionable reagents, my mind full of fascinating information about organised crime economics and commercial practices in a functional anarchy.
"Well," I said as we returned to the "normal" streets of Bilgewater (where only casual violence happened, not the sale of human organs), "that was educational."
"You bought a seed that is banned in every known nation," Morgana observed.
"For legitimate research purposes."
"You wanted to negotiate with a poison vendor about promotions on mass murder."
"Market analysis."
"You had a discussion about the comparative ethics of different types of curses."
"Sociological study."
"You turned an entire black market into an academic study."
"It's a talent."
She shook her head, but she was smiling. Small, but genuine. "You are absolutely impossible."
"Thank you. I work hard at it."
[Should I add to your CV: 'Exceptional skill at turning criminal activities into educational opportunities'?]
"And now," Morgana said, looking at the sun, which was nearing midday, "we need to eat something. Preferably something that doesn't have a twenty per cent chance of killing us."
"We can go after we see the Slaughter-Docks, the taverns should be busy by then."
"In Bilgewater, the pubs are always busy."
"Fair point."
As we looked for a place to eat, a scent hit our noses. It wasn't the familiar smell of fish and salt and mild decomposition that permeated all of Bilgewater. This was something… different. More intense. More visceral. The smell of fresh blood and exposed meat and something deeply, fundamentally animal that touched the primitive parts of the human brain that whispered 'predator' and 'danger' and 'run'.
[Olfactory analysis: Blood of multiple species, including at least three that are not catalogued in the standard biological database. Viscera. Bile. Stomach acid from something with a pH that should dissolve metal. Something that smells of ozone and residual magic. And… is that kraken musk? Yes. Definitely kraken. You are about to enter the Slaughter-Docks.]
"Azra'il," Morgana said, noticing my suddenly sharpened interest, "whatever you're thinking—"
"I'm just going to have a look."
"Your definition of 'just having a look' typically includes touching, examining, questioning, and occasionally trying to buy."
"A fair observation. But I promise: no trying to buy sea monster organs to dissect in our room."
"Today."
"Today," I agreed.
"Azra'il."
"This week. Final offer."
She sighed but didn't stop me as I turned the corner and walked into the Slaughter-Docks.
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Author's Note 💜
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This chapter exists because I really wanted to write Bilgewater the way it actually is:
a place where morality went on vacation, legality died years ago, and illegal capitalism is thriving.
The Black Market isn't an accident. It works. Is it horrible? Yes. Immoral? Absolutely. Efficient? Unfortunately, also yes. Bilgewater is basically the concept of "this is terrible, but it functions."
Azra'il walks into this place and does what she always does.
She doesn't judge. She doesn't panic. She doesn't try to save anyone.
She turns everything into an academic study.
Poisons? Research.
Curses? Ethical comparison.
Human organs in jars? Market analysis and risk assessment for urban necromantic outbreaks.
Zero emotions. Just scientific curiosity and deeply questionable decisions.
And then there's Morgana.
Morgana looks at all of this and thinks:
"This is wrong. This is disgusting. This is deeply disturbing."
But she also understands that you can't show up in Bilgewater with holy fire, burn everything you personally consider immoral, and call that justice. That's not redemption, that's moral colonization with wings.
So Morgana's role here isn't to purify Bilgewater.
It's damage control.
Her job is to set limits where possible, sigh constantly, and accept that her main responsibility is preventing Azra'il from buying too many illegal things and accidentally causing international incidents.
This chapter is basically:
Azra'il turning war crimes into a graduate thesis.
Morgana trying to prevent arrests, banishment from multiple countries, and the creation of a homicidal carnivorous garden in their room.
Bilgewater remains immoral.
Azra'il remains impossible.
And Morgana remains tired.
Perfect balance. 💀✨